


Songs of the Pirate Queen

by tortuosity



Series: Every Storm a Serenade [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Boats, Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Eventual Romance, F/F, Fluff, Found Family, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Redemption, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rivain (Dragon Age), Self-Denial, Self-Hatred, Single POV, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2019-10-20 11:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 146,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17621633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortuosity/pseuds/tortuosity
Summary: She was a force of nature, a hurricane made flesh, laying waste to everything foolish enough to remain in her inevitable path of destruction. And then there was Hawke, feet planted firmly on the ground, refusing to move.A series of short fics inspired by a playlist I put together. Follows Isabela from before the events of Dragon Age 2, through all three Acts, then to post-DA2. Rated for language, violence, and sexual depictions.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I listen to a lot of music, especially when I'm working on something. Lately, there's been a lot of times where the song that came up reminded me of Isabela or her relationship with Hawke. So I saved them to a playlist. Eventually, the playlist grew to 24 songs. At that point, I thought "I could get some fic out of this!" So I rearranged the tracks to fit roughly in chronological order and devised a short fic summary based on the lyrics and general feeling of each. The song informs the story, but the lyrics won't feature in the writing at all. You won't even need to listen to the songs or look them up if you don't want to; the stories should make sense just fine on their own. There are a few artists that make multiple appearances in the playlists because their songs really fit, and I didn't have the heart to cut them just because. So if you get tired of seeing Marina and the Diamonds... I'm sorry, but she really writes a good, messy love song ;)
> 
> Note that I will likely play fast and loose with established canon, especially for events pre- and post-DA2, if I feel it makes for a better story. Various tenses and framing devices will be used, depending on the chapter.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.
> 
> P.S.: I post one-shots, random thoughts, headcanons, and more over at [my Tumblr](https://tortuosity-writes.tumblr.com/tagged/sotpq), if you can't get enough ;)

To start out with, our intro song will be "The Lonesome Boatman" by Dropkick Murphys. It's an instrumental track, but I think it does a great job setting the scene for a pre-Kirkwall Isabela.


	2. Pre-DA2, Part 1: "Seven Deadly Sins"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flogging Molly: "Seven Deadly Sins"  
>  _Sail away where no ball and chain_  
>  _Can keep us from the roarin' waves_  
>  _Together undivided but forever we'll be free_
> 
>  
> 
> Takes place seven years before the start of DA2.

_(Isabela’s logbook is scuffed and worn. It looks like it’s partially fallen into water more than once. Her handwriting is surprisingly elegant, the penmanship of someone well-educated. Various maps and drawings are stuffed between the pages, along with a few yellowing love letters)_

##### 9:23 Dragon, 5 Cloudreach

I suppose a proper captain has to keep a captain’s log, right? Years from now, when I am a fabulously wealthy admiral, I can look back at these simpler times with nostalgia.

Glint came through for me, finally. I was about ready to give up on the little shit; one can only hear “I’m getting a big job lined up, just be patient” for so long. We’re to smuggle crates of liquid lyrium to a rogue mage in Denerim. I asked him where he was able to find three hundred crates of lyrium, and he told me it was a “dwarf thing” and I wouldn’t understand. Which makes me wonder if it’s even proper lyrium at all. Oh well, so long as I get paid, I don’t care if it’s three hundred crates of nugshit. I’ll be in and out before they can crack the first box.

Our ship is called “Black Cat.” She’s small—only a single-masted sloop—but fast as anything I’ve seen once her topsail is raised. Arturo says we can take her through the strait between Alamar and the Blackmarsh without scraping the rocks. He’s a stuck-up Antivan asshole, but he’s not wrong. Glint says Cat’s draft is so shallow it feels like she glides above the water instead of in it. Fast and maneuverable enough to keep us from getting into trouble. Add eighty men and women to man her and I almost feel like a real smuggler.

I met some of my crew tonight at the tavern in Wycome. I like to buy a few rounds and get to know my people before we get stuck on a boat together; makes it less likely I’ll get a dagger in my back. Or have to put one in theirs. 

Dice is the only other Rivaini this time around. Big man with a big laugh and an even bigger appetite for food and drink. Not half-bad to look at, either. I wouldn’t mind seeing what he’s packing in those breeches, but he’s only got eyes for Bones, that half-dead looking apostate from the Free Marches. Don’t know why you’d want to take along a lover on a ship… seems like a recipe for disaster. But if they can stop sword-fighting with each other long enough to smuggle some lyrium, it’s none of my business. Heh. Sword-fighting.

Bootleg about scared the shit out of me when he came ducking through the door. You understand, dear journal, that the Qunari and I do not have a fond history with one another. Boot’s Tal-Vashoth, though. Even cut his horns off. He told me he escaped from Par Vollen and has been living as a mercenary on merchant vessels for the last five years. He also told me he was the best swordsman, sailor, and lover I’ve never seen. He told me a lot of things, but I’ll believe it when I see it. I asked him why, out of all the names he could have picked, he chose “Bootleg.” He told me it “sounded good.” I guess if I chose a captain’s pet name, of all things, for my pirate name, I have no right to judge.

Arturo was there, too, talking over me like he was the captain until I slammed my dagger into the table between his fingers. He’s not even first mate this time around. He’s just the helmsman, and Glint or I could make the trip to Denerim with our eyes closed. I imagine he’s not happy following the orders of a woman half his age. If he doesn’t like it, he can find his own damned ship.

He brought along this slip of an elf named Scratch. Pretty little thing, but a real pissy bitch. Though sometimes you have to be when you’re a woman sailor, so I don’t mind so much. She’s from the alienage in Denerim and is supposed to help get us in with the mage. I’m not asking questions.

I should go to bed. We set sail tomorrow as soon as everyone gets on board. Pirates are not known for being morning people, after all.

##### 9:23 Dragon, 6 Cloudreach

A strong southward wind blessed our sails this morning as we shoved off. Three hundred and twelve crates of lyrium in the Cat’s cargo hold. I counted. Glint tells me it’s not explosive when it’s been processed, but given the size of the cut I’m getting for this run, I’m not sure I believe him. And I can only imagine the purse he’s pulling in, given this is technically his job from his cousin’s wife’s best friend’s nug wrangler back in Orzammar.

It feels so good to be out on the water. After the last job went south I never thought I’d leave land again. And the Cat cuts through the sea like butter. I think I’m in love. Can I be in love with a boat? I relieved the lookout in the crow’s nest just to feel the breeze. I swear the air smells better the higher up you are.

Cracked open a keg with a few of the boys tonight. Did I mention Dice drinks like a fucking fish? He’s got this big gold ring through his nose attached by a chain to his earring. Must be the new fad in Rivain. I propositioned him and Bones to join me in the captain’s quarters, but that was a miss. They’re not just nighttime lovers. They’re committed! To each other! I told them marriage was overrated and they just laughed at me. They’ll see. Apparently, Bones is an escape artist from the Circle at Ostwick. He fell out a window twenty feet up during the last attempt and had to use magic to heal his own shattered legs. Made it as far as Hercenia before running into Dice, who was injured in a raid along the coast. Bones fixed him up, and Dice got them both a ship north where the Templars couldn’t find them. I’d say that’s rather romantic, if I were a romantic sort of girl. 

Tried bringing a drink to Scratch, because I apparently have a soft spot for women. She said, and I quote, “Fuck off, shem. I’m not your friend.” Well, I’m not about to take that as an invitation. I let her know that I don’t have to be her friend, but I am her captain, and she better remember that if she doesn’t want to swim back to Denerim. She didn’t say anything after that. Fine by me. Arturo can deal with her.

I can hear Dice and Bones knocking boots. Bones moans like a whore. Well, no one is sharing my bed tonight, but that doesn’t mean I can’t spend some quality time with myself. Good night, journal.

##### somthing dragon ??? whatevr

_(The writing is crammed into a corner and uncharacteristically sloppy)_  
  
DRUNK. Hardto write had boot inmy bed  
wantd to see—  
ow owow Cant walkstrait

##### 9:23 Dragon, 8 Cloudreach

Maker’s balls, this has got to be my worst hangover since… last week. Damn that Dice and his rum! And damn Boot, who can’t stop boasting to every bloody crewman that he bedded the captain. As if that’s something worth bragging about. I’ll tell him I’ve had better at the Bone Pit in Antiva. That should shut him up for at least a few minutes. He’s got a big cock but that’s about it. Not worth much if you don’t know how to use it.

Glint stopped by. At least he knocked first. Told me he deserves extra hazard pay for putting up with all these imbeciles. I’ve half a mind to agree. He’s a good first mate, that one. 

Arturo spotted a stormfront brewing in the east and moving our way. We might be able to lose it if we can move fast enough, but the winds are no longer in our favor. Apparently, this is my fault. “If we had left when I said we should, we would have avoided it!” My mother acted the seer; I don’t need some stuffed-shirt Antivan manchild doing the same. Every pirate thinks they know the secret to divining the weather, but we’re all at the mercy of whatever celestial being is screwing with us that day. We’ll batten down the hatches and ride it out like we always do. 

He should spend more time controlling Scratch. One of the crew got handsy with her and she cut him ear to ear. A little extreme, but I’m not entirely upset by it. I would’ve maybe broken his fingers instead of giving him a new smile in his throat, though. They must raise ‘em tough in Denerim.

I just heard thunder. Better get everyone belowdecks and get ready for it to hit.

##### 9:23 Dragon, 8 Cloudreach

Have I mentioned lately how much I hate being stuck in the hold? I feel like this storm has been pounding us for days, but it can’t be more than six hours. This hangover's got me wanting to vomit enough as is. Everyone is going stir-crazy. Pirates need the open air like we need… well, like we need air. Or ale. Except Bones. He looks like a corpse, and not just because he probably weighs less than a ten year old girl. Dice told me that’s normal, this corpse thing. That Bones likes to spend time in the Fade more than in the real world. I’m a little envious. The Fade has never been a kind place for me. He better not be skimming our lyrium to gallivant off into fuzzy dream world. 

Note to self: count the crates when we land. 

We’ve still got a few more days and the roughest part is ahead. The Fereldan navy patrols out near Denerim, and though Arturo assures me we can largely avoid them by heading through the strait, that’s likely pirate territory. I’m nervous about it, but I can’t tell the men that. They need to see a fearless captain.

Boot is telling me some bullshit about fighting off a dozen Qunari with one hand tied behind his back. Going up to the top deck and getting swept into the ocean is starting to sound awfully appealing.

##### 9:23 Dragon, 15 Cloudreach

 _(The writing on this page appears done in a fast, shaky hand)_

I will find Arturo and I will chop his balls off and I will shove them down his throat! Fucking cur! And that bitch Scratch... I’ll find her, too. And then she'll wish she'd never left the alienage.

 _(There is nothing for half a page but furious scratching and ink splotches)._

I knew it I knew it I knew it. TRUST YOUR GUT, ISABELA. ALWAYS. ALWAYS!

I should explain, right? For posterity.

Simply put: we got fucked. Go through the strait, the bastard said. If anyone wants to intercept us, we’ll be past them before they have time to turn their ships around. But he made a deal with another captain. Their ships blocked the mouth of the strait. Big galleons with ramming plows. Flaming crossbows. More galleons behind, blocking the escape.

I prepared my crew for boarding. The rival crew planted grappling hooks into the Cat and climbed aboard, swords drawn. I was ready to sacrifice the lyrium if I had to, but they wanted blood. 

And that’s when Arturo grabbed me from behind and held a knife to my throat, with Scratch at his back, protecting him. He told the other captain that I would be thrown in as part of the deal. Half the cut from the lyrium and Captain Isabela to do with as he pleases. And Arturo would keep the ship. My ship.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that. It’s all blurry. I stabbed Arturo in the gut. He cut me in the shoulder. It was deep. Pure chaos. I remember seeing Boot take down man after man before an arrow caught him in the throat. He was a damned good swordsman, that much was true. Glint, my beautiful first mate, was cut down while protecting the hatch to the lyrium. Why couldn’t he just let it go? My crew lit Cat on fire when it became obvious there was no winning the battle. They weren’t going to let the bastards take her. Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me overboard. I think it was Bones. His hands were glowing blue. I was slipping in the blood on the deck. I think it was mine.

The last thing I can recall before sliding under the water was the Black Cat collapsing into the strait, sails ablaze.

I woke up in Alamar, and that’s where I am now. Bones and Dice made it out with me. Bones, bless him, fixed up my shoulder. It still aches, but according to him, I was in danger of bleeding out. He had to keep working on me the whole way here. They don’t know if Arturo and Scratch survived, or anyone else from my crew. It was a complete disaster. Such a waste. This logbook was one of the few things they could grab. Don't know how it kept from turning into a soaked mess. It's luckier than I am.

I should’ve known. I never should’ve let that goatfucker on my ship. I won’t make that mistake again.

Maybe I was better off as a kept wife in my gilded cage with Luis. Maybe I can’t do this.

NO

I will rebuild from the ashes, like I always do. I won’t give up. Thedas will know my name.


	3. Pre-DA2, Part 2: "Whoever Brings the Night"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightwish: "Whoever Brings the Night"  
>  _The dark, created to hide the innocent white, the lust of night_  
>  _Eyes so bright, seductive lies_  
>  _Crimson masquerade where I merely played my part_  
>  _Poison dart of desire_
> 
>  
> 
> This is a direct sequel to the previous chapter. I gave Luis a last name; I don't think he's ever had one in canon. And I probably bent established lore with this one a bit

Antiva: sweet wine, sweeter whores. Isabela wasn’t certain which order she wanted those in, but she was set on indulging in both tonight, in excess, and Maker help anyone who got in her way.

It had been nearly two years since the disastrous sinking of the Black Cat. Fortunately, the work since then proved considerably more uneventful. Isabela stuck to jobs in Rialto Bay mostly, occasionally dipping as far south as Wycome, but never further. Certainly nowhere near Denerim, no matter how juicy the opportunities. Ferelden was cursed, as far as she was concerned.

Dice, the drunken Rivaini giant, and Bones, his lanky, drowsy-eyed apostate partner-in-crime-and-life (as Dice called him) were, to her utmost surprise, still with her. They had developed the sort of loyalty rarely found in pirates, always managing to end up on the same jobs together, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not. Something about sharing trauma must bring people closer together, Isabela assumed, though she was in no hurry to sink another ship just to make more friends. Still, she was proud to call them her brothers.

And, as any proper little sister ought to do, she made sure the boys were to never take anything too seriously, lest it all go to their heads. So when Bones informed her about their impending nuptials, her idea of an appropriate celebration was a trip to the highest of high-class brothels Antiva City had to offer.

“After all,” she said, “if you’re going to be stuck with each other for all eternity, might as well enjoy someone else’s cock while you still have the chance. It’ll be fun, trust me!”

As any of her crew could attest, ‘it’ll be fun, trust me’ were the most dangerous words to ever come out of Isabela's mouth.

It wasn’t entirely for their benefit, of course. Isabela hadn’t felt a woman’s touch in ages, and while men were fine and dandy and certainly plentiful, she needed a change of pace. She needed a long bath and red silk sheets and soft curves in her hands. Yes, she decided, this was necessary. But really, it was mostly for the boys’ benefit. She was a giver, that Isabela. That’s what they’d say.

They were fresh off a lucrative gig “relieving” a southern merchant of his weapons cargo, the gold in their pockets immediately starting to burn a hole. Antiva City had no shortage of establishments ready to help with this burden, and every building they passed promised more and more lavish entertainments.

“We could make this coin go much farther at the pub,” Dice grumbled, staring longingly at the string of bars decorating the city’s red lantern district. “I could be neck-deep in ale.”

“Yes, but now you’ll be neck-deep in a lovely suitor, instead!” Isabela hooted, elbowing him in the ribs. Dice’s skin was of a hue not easily given to reveal a blush, but when the vulgarity got her an embarrassed wheeze of laughter, she knew she hit the mark. “Besides, Paraíso serves alcohol, so no tears.”

“Aye, tiny thimbles of brandy aged for thirty years in ironwood casks made by young virgin elves, I’ll bet. Ten andris a sip.” Dice nearly pouted, though on his face it looked more like a grimace. “I’ve no time for such ‘fineries.’”

Isabela rolled her eyes. So dramatic, that one. “Hush. The Antivans already think we’re uncultured jungle savages; no need to prove them right.”

“I think our dear captain is more interested in having her _own_ candle lit,” drawled Bones, earning himself a smack on the arm. A gentle one, though. Isabela didn’t want to accidentally break his spindly little bird bones.

“Andraste’s glorious bosom, if your captain needs her candle lit by something that isn’t a hairy, smelly, scratchy sailor, she bloody well deserves it! Do you know how long it’s been since I was serviced by a woman?”

Heaving a mighty sigh, Bones turned to Dice and said, “Ah, the truth comes out. This is about _her_ bits, not ours. Typical.”

Oh, he got her, that Marcher bastard. “I… well. Yes. But you agreed to it! And I’m buying your lad for the night, so quit whining. Your bits will be well taken care of, not to worry. Consider it your wedding present.”

“Such a generous queen our captain is!” Dice clapped a hand on her shoulder, nearly knocking her to the cobblestones. “And you’ll buy the drinks, too?” He smiled, a flash of a gold tooth sparkling beneath his heavy black beard.

Isabela snorted. “Fuck no, I am most certainly not! I’d end up needing to sell myself to cover your tab. Buy your own thimbles, boys. _I’m_ getting wine and silk sheets. Ooh, and a massage.”

——————

She had only been here once, years ago, at Zevran’s behest. Paraíso, like everything good in Antiva, was almost definitely owned by the Crows. Isabela might have held some sway here once, as the wife of renowned merchant Luis Montenegro Flores, but as his feral-spirited widow, any goodwill had evaporated. And, she realized with a sharp, sickening feeling in her gut, Arturo could still be out there. If he was lurking about, she was honor-bound as a betrayed captain to kill him—not that she required any pirate’s code to want his head mounted to the bow of her ship. She shoved the thoughts of him away. He would be a fool to try anything here, not with this many eyes watching.

The brothel was every bit as ostentatious as she remembered. The kind of place where even the most base depravities were dressed like royalty. The entrance parlor, awash in purple and red tapestries, was softly lit with ruby-encrusted candelabras suspended from the coffered ceiling. Velvet-upholstered chaise lounges with tasseled pillows framed the room, each accompanied by heavy mahogany low tables set with bottles, goblets, and victuals. Even the floor was spotless, with well-polished tile inlaid into stars. Anything and everything that could be trimmed with gold, was. Isabela found herself wishing she hadn’t thrown all her old noblewoman finery into the sea years ago in a fit of spite.

She made a quick scan of the room, searching for any patrons she knew, or any that could possibly know her. It seemed safe enough, and this was considered neutral territory in years past, but one could never be too careful. She was grateful for the extra daggers stashed in her boots and vest.

Dice let out a low whistle beside her as he took it all in. “I’m not sure my blood is rich enough for a place like this, Captain,” he rumbled, absently tugging at the doublet Isabela picked out for him specifically for the occasion. “I’m not exactly one of the elite.”

“Tonight you are, big boy. Tonight, we all are,” Isabela reassured him, already eyeing the merchandise. They would be kings and queen for an evening; she would make sure of it.

The hostess, an Antivan in a billowing crimson gown with the neck cut down nearly to her navel, swept over to them in a cloud of perfume. “Good evening, mistress and masters," she trilled. "We at the Paraíso are honored by your presence and endeavor to make this a night worth remembering. My name is Madame Lucía; I am here to ensure your every wish is fulfilled.” She grasped Isabela’s hand delicately between her own. Madame Lucía wore a ring set with a ruby the size of a small egg. “Shall I walk you through our services?”

Isabela was prepared. She reached into her bodice and pulled out a small cloth bag. Tipping the bag into her hand revealed three golden coins stamped with a motif of lovers in an erotic embrace. She could never tell Dice or Bones how much those three coins cost her.

“I believe that won’t be necessary, Madame,” she said, presenting the coins in her upturned palm, as was custom.

The corners of the Madame’s painted mouth turned up as she took the coins, and she bowed her head slightly. “Please follow me,” she said, gathering her skirts and leading the three pirates out of the parlor.

——————

“More wine, mistress Isabela?” 

“Yes, love, if you don’t mind.” Isabela held her glass out. She had lost track of how many glasses of the stuff she had already gone through. “And just Isabela is fine. I’m no merchant’s wife anymore. Just a pirate who got lucky.” She couldn’t recall the last time she felt so relaxed. After a long bath that left her cleaner than she had felt in months, she was ready to melt into the lounge. But the promise of later pleasures with the woman seated next to her left her with a delicious tension that kept her from unwinding completely.

Her partner for the evening, a pale southerner with a shy smile and wicked eyes who called herself “Rose,” nodded and refilled the glass. At Isabela’s insistence, she also poured one for herself. “A pirate? That sounds exciting. How did you get lucky?” 

“A ship full of enchanted weaponry found itself a new owner, who was very grateful for such a fortuitous turn of events.” No doubt Rose had entertained a hundred pirates in the last two weeks, telling them all how exciting they were. Isabela knew a great part of the appeal of courtesans was having someone pretend to be fascinated by you. It was bought attention, of course, but she liked it just the same.

Rose smiled against the rim of her glass and took a sip. “And he was so grateful he gave you three lovers coins, I take it?”

“No, he gave me a pile of gold, which I used to purchase those three lovers coins. A gift for my soon-to-be betrothed crewmen.” Said crewmen were taken into a separate room to pick out their boy. Isabela hoped they were making the most of it.

“That was very generous of you, Isabela. And very clever to keep one coin for yourself.” 

Isabela had a penchant for always picking the smart-mouthed girls, it seemed. She looked forward to learning what else that mouth could do. “And what’s your story, Rose? You don’t look very Antivan.”

“Fereldan, actually. I’m technically the daughter of a Bann, though I imagine he’s disowned me by now. I suppose I wanted more adventure in my life,” she laughed, but there was the slightest hint of bitterness underneath. “And you must be Rivaini, although your accent doesn’t quite match.”

“It’s from traveling, I think. I’ve picked up bits and pieces of everywhere I’ve been.” She was most proud of her collection of curses. Even the rare “sod off” slipped in every once in a while; a consequence of having Glint as her first mate, she assumed.

Rose leaned over and toyed with the collar of Isabela’s silk robe. “And have you spent time with women everywhere you’ve been, as well?”

“I wouldn’t be a very good pirate if I hadn’t, now would I?” Isabela shifted so she was straddling Rose’s lap between her thighs. She drained her glass and set it aside; Rose followed suit. “A lover in every port, right? Though I must admit, I haven’t spent time with many Fereldans yet.”

Deftly unknotting the tie at the front of Isabela’s robe, Rose declared, jovial with a touch of fire, “Well, I hope I do my country proud.”

Isabela had forgotten how soft lips could be. And Rose was, without a doubt, an expert with hers, lavishing open-mouthed kisses with precisely the right amounts of tongue and teeth across Isabela’s lips, jaw, neck, and shoulder. Never lingering for too long on one spot, unless subtle hitches of breath or gripping of fingers indicated yes, please linger.

Men were fun. Men were good for a quick tumble in the sack. But women… there was a reason the Chantry hierarchy was composed entirely of women, why Andraste inspired such fanatical devotion, Isabela decided. Women were _holy_.

“Shit,” she breathed when Rose’s mouth found her nipple. Fortunately, the piercings she had placed in them months ago had finally healed, and just in time. If she were a more virtuous woman, she might have felt embarrassed by how thoroughly soaked she was already. It was complete bliss, complete hedonism, and—

“Isabela!” Someone was screaming her name in the hallway, the call growing louder and more frantic as whoever it was neared her room. It sounded like Dice.

He burst into the room, slamming the door open with a bang. Rose uttered a small squeak of surprise, ducking behind the couch as Isabela threw her robe back on. Dice had only a small towel wrapped around his waist, and he looked positively terrified, more than Isabela had ever seen. Her heart leaped into her throat.

“Isabela!” he gasped, eyes wild. “It’s Bones! Help me!” 

She glanced at Rose, huddled in the corner of the lounge, suddenly looking so much like the young and frightened girl she was. “Stay here,” Isabela told her. “Lock the door and do not come out.” Quickly tying her robe closed, she grabbed a dagger the guards hadn’t managed to confiscate from her off the table. 

They scrambled down the hall, past curious bystanders peeking their heads out from behind doors. When they entered Dice and Bones’s private suite, Isabela’s heart fell from her throat into her stomach.

Bones lay sprawled on the bed, convulsing, hands reaching and clenching at something unknown. Dark red energy crackled around him, in him, through his veins, radiating out his eyes. And next to him, drawing the energy into his fingers, was a beautiful man, breathtaking in his physical perfection. A desire demon.

“I was hoping you’d bring another mage,” the demon said, not turning away from Bones. His voice was of the young man he inhabited, yet at the same time layered over something otherworldly, something that spoke to the darkest recesses of Isabela’s mind. She blinked rapidly and tried to focus.

Isabela held an arm out to steady Dice, who seemed on the verge of collapse. If they were to take on the demon, she wasn’t confident about the odds of them emerging victorious. But if she took too much time deciding…

“What do you want with him?” she asked, dreading the answer. She couldn’t look at the grotesque way Bones’s neck muscles were straining.

So casually condescending, like he was talking to a dog: “I have grown tired of this body and wish to inhabit a new one. This one will satisfy my needs well enough. He has run to the Fade to try and escape me, but he can’t hide for long.”

The demon turned his gaze to her, and Isabela felt the most maddening and overwhelming need to do anything he asked of her. She would kill Dice, kill herself, anything, as long it would please him. His whispers glided through her brain, sweet promises, perfect lies. She could have it all, anything she wanted, if only she—

“Isabela,” Dice choked out. “Don’t listen to him. We have to fight.” He grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her roughly. For half a second, she wanted to murder him for interrupting, for breaking her moment with this beautiful creature.

“You _could_ fight,” the demon said, turning his attention back to Bones. Isabela grit her teeth and stared pointedly at the floor, trying to force the demon’s presence from her mind through sheer willpower. “Perhaps you could even kill me. This body, after all, is weak. Of course, you would kill the mage, as well.”

When Dice began to sob, Isabela’s blood turned to ice. She had no choice. Shifting her hold on her dagger’s hilt from a reverse grip to a light pinch between her thumb and two fingers, she flexed her arm from shoulder to wrist. The dagger exploded from her fingertips and into the demon’s neck, buried to the hilt. The body collapsed to the floor, blood pulsing from its wound, then gushing, pooling red on the polished tiles, seeping into the rug. A cruel, mocking laugh echoed from within Isabela’s mind, and hot adrenaline turned to cold dread.

Dice sprang to the bedside and cradled Bones’s body to him, holding him tight in an effort to keep the spasms at bay. Tears streamed down his cheeks and into his beard. Isabela knelt next to Bones on the bed and held his hand. His fingers were like claws. She had never felt so useless.

Bones opened his eyes and gasped for air like a man brought back from drowning. For a brief, precious moment, Isabela thought he had a chance. 

“Please…” Bones wheezed, as if there were hands around his neck. “He’s coming for me. In the Fade. I can’t…” His eyes rolled back in his head. For a few seconds, he was back in the Fade, presumably hunted by the desire demon who was no longer tethered to a mortal body. Dice rocked back and forth, muttering prayers in Rivaini. Isabela offered a few of her own, and a few extra to the Maker. When he finally regained lucidity, Bones looked at her, into her, and begged for death. “If you don’t kill me,” he said, fighting to keep steady, “I will become an abomination.” As the last syllable left his lips, he slipped back into the Fade once more.

Isabela closed her eyes, took a breath, and swallowed hard. It was time to be the captain. 

“Dice. Give me your knife.”

He stared at her, wide-eyed like a cornered animal. “You can’t… we can get someone from the Chantry, or the Circle, someone who can help. Isabela, please…” He trailed off, voice breaking, as he realized the utter hopelessness of his futile grasping. Giving Bones a few private words and one last kiss on the forehead, he retrieved his dagger from his pack and passed it to Isabela, hands shaking. Her hands were still. “Make it quick,” he said hoarsely, turning his back on the both of them.

Cradling Bones’s limp head in her lap, she offered a silent apology—to him, to Dice, and to any gods listening, though she felt so completely unheard, abandoned, screaming into the void.

She made it quick.


	4. Pre-DA2, Part 3: "How to Be a Heartbreaker"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marina and the Diamonds: "How to be a Heartbreaker"  
>  _Rule number one, is that you gotta have fun  
>  But baby when you're done, you gotta be the first to run  
> Rule number two, just don't get attached to  
> Somebody you could lose_

He was a good man. He was the sort of man you’d want to bring home to your mother. Well, not her mother, of course. Her mother would bemoan his lack of wealth, would find his kindness cloying, would conspire to drive a wedge between them. But if she had a real mother, a proper mother who wanted the best for her daughter… she could bring him home for her to see. He had a real mother, back in Starkhaven. He wrote her letters about the beautiful Rivaini woman he had fallen in love with. How he couldn’t wait to bring her to Starkhaven and show her off to the family. You’d love her, too, just wait and see. She laughed at him. She was not the sort of woman you’d want to bring home to your mother. She admitted as much. He didn’t listen, no matter how many times she tried to tell him. She was not a good woman.

He was a good man. He wasn’t always a bad listener. When he broke past her bluster and bravado, when he learned about the terrible things she had done, when she remembered it all and cried for days, he listened. He held her and wiped her tears away and told her it was all in the past. He forgave her. But there was still more he didn’t know, things that stayed under lock and key. Things she would never share with him. She was not a good woman.

He was a good man. He took her to their favorite spot, the one under the olive tree, with wine and a bouquet of roses. He got down on one knee, took her hand and asked if she would do him the honor of marrying him, that he didn’t have much to offer a woman like her, but he would love her until his last breath. She thought of chains and imprisonment, of birds with clipped wings in golden cages. She left him, his wine and his roses and his love, and ran. She was not a good woman.

He was a good man. He sat down with quill and ink and wrote her a letter. He apologized for moving too quickly, said he would wait for her until she was ready. As long as it took, because she was worth waiting for. But she had paid a visit to his brother, who had never been shy about his jealousy and his desire for her. When she unlaced his breeches, there was no protest. It was simpler this way. He was not a good man, not like his brother. And she was not a good woman.

He was a good man. He never tried to hunt her down, to seek revenge for his broken heart and shattered trust. He let her fly free, because he knew her spirit could not be tamed, because you couldn’t capture fire in a bottle without snuffing it out. She stole his daggers as keepsakes, named them Backstabber and Heartbreaker, mementos of her selfishness, tributes to her fear. She was not a good woman.


	5. Pre-DA2, Part 4: "The Siren"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightwish: "The Siren"  
>  _I tied myself to the wheel_  
>  _The winds talk to my sails, not me_  
>  _(Come to me)_  
>  _Somewhere there my fate revealed_  
>  _I hear but how will I see_
> 
> A more lighthearted chapter to serve as a respite from all the angst ;) I gave the big river in Antiva a name that seemed logical.

Up and down the coast, things changed: languages, religions, cuisine. A beloved endearment in Rivain was a blistering curse in Antiva. A prized delicacy in the Free Marches was inedible garbage in Ferelden. But no matter their port of call, the pirates were the same. Follow the raucous sounds of singing, cheering, boasting, and fighting into any tavern, and you’d be sure to find them.

It’s where you’d find Isabela, at any rate. Drinking too much and cheating at cards. Though was it really considered cheating when everyone was doing it?

Every captain, regardless of their place of birth or current locale, by tradition, was required to spin a tale about the origin of their ship. So when word got round the tavern that the baudy woman in their midst was, in fact, a captain, the call of “Aye, cap’n, tell the boys about your ship!” went up, followed by a thundering of pint cups banging on tables.

Isabela clambered atop her barstool—quite the feat given her current state of inebriation—and held her mug aloft. “So, you salty knaves want to hear about the Siren’s Call?” she roared, and a rousing chorus of cheers erupted from the patrons, interspersed with more than a few whistles. “A beautiful galleon… _four_ -masted…” She held up four fingers in case the pirates needed help remembering their numbers. “Big, billowing square sails… a lovely well-endowed figurehead on her bow...” She grabbed a handful of herself for emphasis, much to the delight of the audience. “Five hundred ton capacity… and a ballista!”

She hopped onto the table, ignoring the sputtering protests of the barmaid—certainly that table had seen filthier things than the bottoms of her boots. There was a decision to make here. The truth, a bald-faced lie, or something in between. The only rule when it came to playing Tell the Boys About Your Ship was that it had to be entertaining. The truth of the Siren’s Call’s birth was rather dull, she thought. It could bear to be spiced up a bit.

“The ship was of my dear departed husband, the late Luis Montenegro Flores, cruelly murdered in his bed by mysterious assailants. Maker rest his soul.” That much was true, at least. Well, actually, she hoped his soul was in eternal torment in the Void, but close enough. She raised her cup in a toast and bowed her head. The other pirates did the same, although some sniggering from the peanut gallery tempered the quasi-somber atmosphere. 

She continued, “But the Siren’s Call ‘twas not always her name. He called her the Sea Mare, and she was always left in port, never sailed.”

A shout from the back: “Sounds like my old lady!”

After the heckler was shushed, she went on: “Well, I didn’t much care for that name. The Sea Mare.” She scoffed. “Unlike a horse and your old lady, _I_ like being ridden hard and put away wet.” She waited for the howls and whistles to cease. “But I had to get her out of port, first. She was stashed away south of Bastion, towards the outflow of the Tellari River, right on the border between Antiva and the Free Marches. We went in the dead of night to avoid uncomfortable questions from the authorities. I brought my boys and we pulled her anchor up and unfurled her sails.” 

She had been honest so far. In reality, she then sailed the Sea Mare up to Rialto Bay, deciding on the way that “Siren’s Call” sounded much better, and that was that. But that was dreadfully boring. She would have to get creative.

“I’ll tell you lads this, she was like a dream floating through the water. I thought to myself, why would my dear, departed husband never sail this beauty? He had other ships, true, but this one had to be the best of his fleet.

“The wind was a coy bitch that day, and the fog was thick as porridge, so the journey to the mouth of the river was all oars and rudder, a real slow one. I started hearing these strange sounds. I wasn’t sure what it was at first; I thought maybe a sickness had taken me or the wind was playing tricks. But then my boatswain came up to me and said, ‘Captain Isabela, do you hear that? Sounds like a violin.’

“Now, you dogs who have sailed the Tellari know you can’t see the shore on either side once you near the sea, much less hear anyone playing a violin. But as we drifted, that’s what met my ears. A lone violin, playing the saddest, sweetest song I’d ever heard. I felt this overwhelming urge to find out where this music was coming from. I handled the wheel like someone possessed, no control over my hands.

“Oh, I found the source of the music, all right. By that point, half my men had jumped overboard in a fit of insanity. Only reason I was still aboard was because I had to direct the ship. The wind turned dead still; there was nothing save the violin. I came back to my senses just long enough to realize what was happening. I screamed for my crew to block their ears and for someone to tie me to the bloody wheel, lest I plunge into the sea myself. Someone had to steer, after all. 

“And then I saw her. Floating above the water, giving off this eerie green glow. She seemed like a woman, maybe a human or elf, but not quite of this world. Almost... corpse-like. Skin too tight across her skull, eyes all sunken in. Just playing her violin, staring at us. I would’ve done anything to get to her. I about tore my arms off, but if there’s one thing a sailor knows, it’s how to tie a good knot, and me and the wheel weren’t going anywhere. By the time we were out to sea and she had disappeared into the fog, most of my men were gone, my wrists were raw and bloody from the rope, and my throat was wrecked from all the wailing for someone to untie me.

“So, my friends, if you are out on the seas with the stars above your heads and you hear a lone violin… beware the siren’s call.”

She swept into a bow as the tavern erupted in ovation. But the true measure of success for a good storyteller is never the applause: she wouldn’t pay for her drinks the rest of the night.


	6. Pre-DA2, Part 5: "Never Let Me Go"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florence and the Machine: "Never Let Me Go"  
>  _And it's over and I'm going under_  
>  _But I'm not giving up_  
>  _I'm just giving in_
> 
>  
> 
> Content warnings for suicidal ideation, physical/emotional/sexual abuse, and alcohol abuse. This is a dark one. I adapted scenes from the comic book "Those Who Speak" and altered details. Please see end notes for justification/discussion.

The ocean laps at her toes. Yanking the half-empty bottle from its sandy throne, she takes another swig and barely flinches at the burn. Llomerryn dark rum. The same bottle she used to steal sips from when her mother was passed out. At twelve, those pilfered drinks made her feel so daring and mature, even if the taste made her cringe. At twenty-five, Llomerryn dark rum makes her feel pathetic. She wonders, if she could go back and visit that little girl, what would Isabela say to Naishe? You want to grow up so quick, more than anything. You’ll get your wish in a few short years, when your mother begins to loathe the child she raised and decides you are old enough to sell. You’ll grow up fast then, sweet thing. He’ll make sure of it. You will become everything you despise. 

Another drink. The moon, hanging high in the oppressively humid air, makes the waves glisten as they roll in. Her firepit has long since dissolved to gray ashes, but she won’t bother to rescue it. The warmth isn’t needed during the height of summer in Rivain, and the light it brought quickly became unwelcome company. She doesn’t want anyone to see her like this. Captain Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas: drunk and crying, sitting in the sand and wearing the same clothes for the past week. It doesn’t matter. No one has come looking for her. No one will come looking for her, she’s sure of it. She is not worth looking for.

_“You never told me we were smuggling slaves.”_

A few inquisitive gulls mingle nearby, picking at a piece of trash. Where did it all go so wrong? Maybe from birth. Maybe, with parents like hers, she was doomed from the start. There is something unique and exquisitely painful about being betrayed by the people you are beholden to trust the most. Her father, the unknown absence, the hole where half of her should be. He’s easy to blame—the perfect vessel for her hatred, without all the annoying complexities of a real person. She tries to imagine what he looks like. Her eyes must come from him; her mother’s are dark brown. That’s as far as she gets. A pair of copper eyes, fading into nothingness, a promise of a hero, a child’s first example of a good man, fading with them. 

Her mother. Mother taught her everything. How to pretend to be sick to win coins from sympathetic fools. How to bump into a mark just right to pick their pocket. How to paint cheap trinkets to look like solid gold. When she was young, how to use her girlish cuteness to charm, and years later, how to use her body to do the same thing. That was her world, her normal. No one ever told her children weren’t meant to be raised that way. 

Nonchalant brutality was commonplace. “I could’ve been so much more if I had never had you. You stole my youth.” Often in the same breath: “I would give anything to keep you safe.” Sitting in her mother’s lap, having her hair braided. Slaps that left angry red marks for days. Holding hands, picking flowers by the creek. Shouting. You didn’t bring home enough money. You never do what I ask. Why are you so stubborn? Why can’t you be a good daughter? Don’t you love me?

_“Don’t act so naive, Isabela. You knew exactly what this job entailed when you took it. You want to pay off your debt, don’t you? Now’s your chance.”_

Water splashes around her ankles, collapsing the sand between her toes and under her heels. Another drink, fire giving way to molasses on her tongue. She tilts her head back, breathes out the fumes, watches the stars spin overhead, drifting in and out of focus. They had always helped her find direction, out on the ocean where there are no signs or maps. So why does she feel so lost?

She remembers the fight they had the day before she was sold. They could stop living like nomads, Hari said. No more stealing food, no more scams, no more uncertainty. The Qun would give them a purpose. No matter the cause, no one is more zealous than the recently converted, and Hari’s devotion to the Qun had grown fanatical.

“And what if we don’t agree with the purpose we’re given?” Isabela had asked. 

“You want to keep being a liar and a thief?” Hari shot back. 

“Why not? It’s how you raised me.” 

A clay vase missed Isabela’s head by inches, shattering against the wall. After that, a lot of screaming. A lot of words perhaps better left unsaid, words she would only come to regret years later. When Hari made to strike her, Isabela caught her by the wrist. “You will never touch me again,” she said, and the threat behind those words was not an empty one. Isabela saw something change in her mother’s bloodshot eyes that day, something sharp and foreign—the eyes of a stranger. The delicate balance between “daughter” and “burden” had shifted permanently.

When she noticed her mother talking with an older Antivan man the following day, what happened after wasn’t a surprise.

“Just take her,” Isabela slurs to no one. She was fifteen.

_“We won’t be able to outmaneuver them! The ship’s overloaded!”_

Little girls are often told their wedding day will be the happiest day of their lives. For Isabela, it was true. It was also one of the most terrifying days of her life. For the first time since she could remember, money was no longer an issue. She had anything she could ever want at her fingertips. Nobles fussed over her as if she was an exotic heirloom placed behind glass in a museum, with backhanded compliments on how “articulate” she was, “... for a Rivaini.” They congratulated her new husband for finding “a diamond in the rough.” They put her in a dress that cost more than her entire village made in a year, painted her face like a doll’s, and paraded her around like a prized show horse. Luis put his arm around her waist and reminded her to smile.

He was kind to her—for a while, at least. She stayed in his gargantuan manor in Antiva, awash in splendor and utterly alone. Luis forbade her from straying too far outside his walls, as she was “uncouth” and likely to get into trouble; trouble which he would then have to pay for. As if to make up for his restrictions and emotional shortcomings, he showered her with gifts from all the far-off lands he visited. Piles and piles of nothing she wanted. He would invite his merchant friends over for cards and brandy, and he always made sure to show her off to them—his “pretty little Rivaini princess.” They would leer at her, sometimes grope her when she filled their glasses. Luis reminded her to smile. She smiled and poured and broke apart inside.

Until, months later, when she couldn’t smile and take it anymore. She smashed an empty bottle of Antivan brandy over Master Izan’s head when he grabbed her ass. She wasn’t allowed to leave her room when the merchants’ consortium was over after that incident. Luis called her a savage dog.

If a savage dog is what he thought she was, a savage dog she would be. Her golden collar chafed as she choked on the end of Luis’s short leash. For a year, she pushed and pushed, to see if she could force him to break off their union. He refused. She pushed more. The walls were closing in and she couldn’t breathe. He paced in front of her, his hands balled into fists. “Why can’t you be a good wife? Don’t you love me?”

An echo returned to her ears one night when Master Alvaro was visiting the manor. “I can handle your she-beast of a wife, Luis. I’ll make her obedient,” he said.

“Just take her.”

_“If the Orlesians catch us, we’ll hang! Dump the cargo!”_

Tears streak through salty dust and fall into the sand. Drink, swallow, breathe. He’s dead, dead, dead. She didn’t plunge the dagger in, but she might as well have.

Like Bones. 

_“What? Devon! They’ll drown!”_

His blood soaked the silk sheets red, terribly red, gurgling from the wound in his throat. She ran. Ran from Dice, ran from that limp corpse in the brothel bed staring up at her, accusing her. Her eyes stayed dry for a whole week afterward, her heart numb, bereft of feeling, until she found his gloves in her trunk. Then she sobbed so hard she threw up. She never saw Dice again. It was better that way. What could she say? What good were apologies when you killed the love of someone’s life? It was her idea. She just wanted to have some fun. Her fault her fault her fault her fault—

_“Better them than us! Get them off the boat! Now! If you don’t, I will, and I’ll start by throwing you over myself!”_

Drink. Half a mouthful misses her lips and spills onto her shirt. The smell makes her nauseous. The bottle is empty. Staggering to her feet, she nearly falls as the surf crashes into her knees. She is a destructive force of nature, a hurricane. Everything she touches, she ruins. Like her good man from Starkhaven, with the kind eyes and gentle hands. She fucked his brother, didn’t she? Didn’t even feel bad about it. Closed her eyes and ran. It’s what she’s best at.

She opened the hatch to the cargo hold. They were packed in there so densely there was no room to sit, no room to do anything but stand. There must be dead among them, but they were left standing, too, buoyed by the living. She gagged; the stench was overwhelming. A thousand eyes squinted into the sudden intrusion of light. She ordered them onto the surface deck. When Devon’s crew started shoving them overboard, she shut her eyes and white-knuckled the wheel. But she couldn’t block out the screaming. 

The world goes black for one, two, three seconds. Someone else is screaming now, and when the black veil recedes, she realizes it’s her. Screaming at the sky, at the Maker, screaming to be struck down, to take this choice from her hands, because the responsibility she’s been dodging for the past twenty-five years is finally coming to collect. The waves slam into her waist and drag her forward into the sea. Her feet no longer touch the bottom. Some primitive part of her brain realizes the danger she’s in and cries out, but it’s swallowed by grief and rum. If she offers herself to the water, would He take her? A drop of justice for the lives she has destroyed. One life for a thousand. Not a fair trade, but it’s all she can give, the only thing she has left to give. She’s run as far as she could. She is out of options.

A curtain slams shut over her mind as she’s pulled under.

She wakes, face-down, to the cries of seagulls overhead. Her throat feels like she’s swallowed acid and the creases lining her face are gritty with grains of sand. Everything hurts, as though her entire body is covered in bruises. A light mist of rain spatters the backs of her arms and legs. With monumental effort, she rolls to her side and forces her salt-caked eyelids to open. A bird pecks at a foamy pile of vomit and rainwater next to her. It’s morning and she’s not dead. She laughs, a bitter, choking sound that turns into a hacking cough, startling the bird and sending it flapping away. The Maker has a sick sense of humor, she thinks, to deny her like this, to make sure she continues to fail. The casual cruelty of mercy. Drawing her knees to her chest, she presses her cheek into the cold, wet sand. Salvation was too much to hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you follow my Tumblr, you know I started a discussion regarding the "Isabela kills a load of slaves" scene from Those Who Speak. As a disclaimer, I have not read the comic book, just the Wiki. With that said, I found it extremely out of character the way it was written. I can't see Isabela, a woman sold to a man as property, a woman who fought with her mother so much over what she sees as an oppressive regime, personally sending hundreds of slaves to their deaths in order to save her own skin. I considered ignoring the event altogether, but that didn't seem right either. So I chose to write it the way I did. I hope it works, and I am always open to feedback.
> 
> I also chose to change the age Isabela was sold to Luis to something that makes more sense to me. I imagine they said she was 18 to avoid dealing with the implications of child brides, but I can't imagine Hari would have that level of control over Isabela at that age.


	7. Act 1, Part 1: "Lover to Lover"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florence and the Machine: "Lover to Lover"  
>  _But I believe, I believe_  
>  _There's no salvation for me now_  
>  _No space among the clouds_  
>  _And I feel I'm heading down_  
>  _But it's alright_  
> 

“A captain without a ship is like a fish without water.” Glint told her that once, after his own ship, a beautiful brigantine named “Brothers’ Folly,” had been scuttled by raiders. He wasn’t the same after that. When they traded roles—Isabela as the captain, Glint as first mate—he never challenged her authority like Arturo, but he was more dour, more aimless. She would sometimes let him take the wheel, and though his helmsmanship was impeccable, he would stare off somewhere into the horizon, mumbling “it’s not the same” and “it’s not right” over and over, before throwing his hands up in frustration and abandoning the wheel to its rightful captain. Much later, she would learn: no matter the goodness of her intentions, letting him play captain with her ship was an insult, not a favor.

Isabela was unmoved. “Being a captain is more than just having a ship. Ships come and go. Get a new one,” she replied, with all the arrogance and certainty of youth.

He seemed so old to her then, casteless tattoos faded and weathered by time and sun, hard lines wrinkling his forehead like a plowed field. Glint had been sailing for twice as long as she had been alive. Squinting in the sunlight, he looked up at her with a curious, wistful smile.

“It ain’t always that easy, Bela,” he said.

She never understood what he meant, until now. She was a captain without a ship, a fish without water, flopping and gasping on the dock. The Siren’s Call lay in its watery grave off the Wounded Coast, a victim, like everything else in her life, of her own bad decisions. Now Castillon, the Qunari, and likely the entire nation of Orlais wanted her dead. So, just another Tuesday, really.

“Oh, have I got the job for you!” Castillon had announced, eyes twinkling in a way that always made her blood run cold. “No slaves this time, so don’t give me that look. Just a simple bit of thievery. Should be child’s play for someone of your talent.” His tone took on a quiet, menacing edge, like a coiled rattlesnake. “I would _strongly_ suggest taking this one. You owe me a great deal after that last stunt you pulled.”

“That stunt” no doubt being her release of a boatful of refugees bound for slavery in Tevinter. Castillon, likely wary of her reaction after her horrific escape from the Orlesian Navy, told her she and her Siren’s Call would serve as escort to a cargo ship smuggling lyrium to Imperium magisters. Maybe it was the way Castillon couldn’t meet her eye when he gave her the instruction, or maybe it was the way Hayder, her quartermaster, was even more vitriolic toward her than usual. Or maybe it was the way the captain of the cargo ship refused to say more than two words to her before they set off. Regardless, Isabela trusted her gut since her failure with the Black Cat, and her gut said there wasn’t lyrium in the cargo hold.

So when they stopped in the Free Marches to resupply and she crept onboard the cargo ship to peer inside the hold, she wasn’t surprised to see two hundred Fereldans instead of crates of lyrium. She wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t stop her hands from shaking or her breath from fleeing her lungs like a kick to the chest. Forcing down the bile creeping up the back of her throat, Isabela once again found herself ordering slaves to the surface deck. But this time, jumping overboard would lead to land, not sea; they would run into the Planasene Forest and hopefully make it to Kirkwall in the east or Val Chevin in the west. For a change, she dared to be optimistic. Hopefully they all made it, and—maybe—this would clean up a few of the many, many black marks on her record, whether by the Maker or her own conscience.

By the time Hayder made it back to the Siren’s Call, her eyes were dry, her breathing steady, and she could claim no, she had _no idea_ what happened to the cargo—after all, how could “lyrium” run away?

Of course, her feigned ignorance would only go so far. Thus, Castillon’s “simple bit of thievery” job.

“Do you know what the Tome of Koslun is?” he had asked her, patronizing as ever, like he was talking to a simple child instead of a seasoned captain. His conspiratorial grin as he spoke might have been charming on someone less repugnant.

She rolled her eyes. “I was raised in Rivain; believe me, I’m well acquainted with the Tome.” It was all her mother could talk about for the last six months before their fight. Koslun says this, Koslun says that. If you asked Isabela, Ashkaari Koslun had the world’s largest, pointiest stick up his ass, and his book was no doubt all about how great having a large, pointy stick up your ass could be.

Castillon cleared his throat awkwardly, his moment ruined. “Ah. Well, Orlais has had the Tome since the Exalted Marches and has refused to release it to the Qunari. Until now. The Arishok is reportedly on his way to get it, but that dusty old book would fetch a far better price elsewhere. Put it in my hands, and I’ll make sure you’re set for life. Our debt settled, with plenty more to spare. Gold enough to bathe in.”

She couldn’t deny that it was right up her alley. No slaves, no blood on her hands, and a chance to put one over on the Qunari and Orlais? That was hard enough to resist. But the chance to finally rid herself of Castillon was more appealing than all the bathtubs full of gold in Thedas.

“Doesn’t sound too challenging. I’m in.”

Who knew those hulking Qunari dreadnoughts could move so fast?

In retrospect, it was a fool’s errand. She had proven herself an irredeemable liability when she helped the Fereldan refugees escape. If, by some wild chance, she had actually retrieved the Tome as planned, Castillon could sell it to the third party (the Imperium, Isabela assumed, as only Tevinter had both the wealth and a three Ages-long grudge against the Qunari to back it up), pocket the profits himself, and have her murdered by the best assassins money could buy. If she failed, the Qunari or Orlais would snuff her lights out for trying, and Castillon could wash his hands of it all and move on to the next scheme. But if she was alive...

Isabela had winced her way through many a bad lay in her time, but none had fucked her quite as bad as the Maker.

Of all the places she could wash up in, it had to be Kirkwall, didn’t it? Some of the locals called it “the armpit of Thedas” with a certain air of pride, because it was _their_ armpit, dammit, and foreigners had no right to criticize. But Isabela wasn’t impressed. She had seen worse cities. Nothing in Kirkwall’s Undercity could compare to the black markets of Llomerryn or the brutal seafaring gangs of Alamar. Well, Kirkwall _smelled_ more like an armpit than anywhere else she had traveled to, that much was true.

No, Kirkwall was just… dull. All sharp corners and granite rocks and iron bars. Endless days of overcast sky. Bizarre clusters of streets that wrapped upon themselves, with seemingly more deadends than actual roads to anywhere. And everything, _everything_ the same dusty shade of brown. When Isabela first stepped into the Gallows and laid eyes on the (admittedly impressive) stone statues, all carved into expressions of utter despair, she felt a surge of empathy. She, too, wanted to mimic them and put her head in her hands, for being stranded in Kirkwall was enough to wring tears from a stone’s eyes.

Three months. Three months since the Siren’s Call splintered against the shards of the coast. Three months since the Waking Sea spat her up onto the shore, gasping and shivering. Three months of eking out some bare semblance of a living, scraping and clawing for coppers. Three months of sleeping in hovels with one eye open, waiting for Castillon or Hayder or anyone else on her long list of enemies to plant a dagger in her chest in the dark. Three months of searching for that bloody stupid book, which was more likely than not sitting at the bottom of the bloody stupid sea in its bloody stupid box.

At least Glint still had a crew when he lost Brothers’ Folly. Most of hers had washed up on the sand with her, broken and bloated. Men she had worked with since her first time aboard a ship, before she even knew the difference between port and starboard. And now they were nothing but skeletons, picked apart by crows and worms and the endless assault of time. Oh, but she was alive. And what was that worth? What did she have? Nothing but a slack-jawed idiot with the ill-suited name of “Lucky,” who swore on his mother’s grave that he could find what she was looking for. Isabela doubted Lucky even had a mother. He probably crawled out of the toxic sludge that oozed through Darktown’s sewers, like some sort of maggot.

Three months of falling back into old habits. If there was one thing Isabela was good at, it was survival, even if, to an outside spectator, it seemed rather low on her list of priorities. Ah, but she was the real lucky one, squeezing her way out of the jaws of death every time, despite taking chances no sane person would think to take. She stalked the worst streets Kirkwall had to offer after dusk, fingers clenched into fists, daring someone to look at her wrong, begging for a fight. When she wasn’t fighting, she was stealing; the pompous louts in Hightown wouldn’t miss a few brooches or rings, and their loss meant food in her belly. And when she wasn’t fighting or stealing, she could, more often than not, be found in a stranger’s bed, for if these were indeed to be her final days, why not drain some last-minute pleasure from them? It wasn’t what she wanted, not exactly, but it would do. A gauze bandage for a pus-filled wound, a temporary stopgap for a crumbling dam. Not what she needed, but It’s the thought that counts.

She made the choice early on to stay out of any organized crime. It meant fewer prospects, but it also meant she answered only to herself. She learned quick who the big players were. The Coterie had their little fingers in everything in Kirkwall, it seemed, and Isabela more than once had to pull back from a lead when she smelled the guild about. That was one group she knew better than to tangle with. There were a few minor players, as well. Whatever dregs remained of the Sabrathan guild after the Coterie’s coup d'état, some dwarves operating outside of the Merchant’s Guild, the Sharps gang, an elven smuggler named Athenril. Isabela avoided all of them. If Lucky got out of line, she could kill him. She couldn’t kill a whole organization.

Her search for the Tome was proving fruitless. Spending hours and hours in Lowtown’s various taverns was a smart idea, she told herself. Everyone knew taverns and bars were where one ought to go for information. That she could also drown herself in alcohol there was simply a happy coincidence.

“The Hanged Man” was becoming a fast favorite, if only because the morbid name felt appropriate for her predicament. The drinks were... well, they had alcohol in them, and the food was, she supposed, somewhat meat-adjacent and came with either “red sauce” or “brown sauce” (never get the brown sauce, the waitress informed her the first time Isabela asked). To tell the truth, she wasn’t actually sure why she kept going there, plunking her ass on a stool for hours and spending too much of what little coin she had. Maybe it was the people. She wouldn’t say any of them could be considered friends, or even acquaintances, yet there was a certain familiarity that came with sharing space alongside the same drunken degenerates week after week.

Corff, the bartender, was nice enough. He never failed to cut her off when she was falling off her seat, and he always managed to look utterly nonplussed when she got into scraps with other patrons. Sometimes he gave her free drinks. All she could ask for from a bartender, really. One afternoon, he passed her a letter, wax seal still intact. Castillon’s seal. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Couple fellas came looking for you earlier,” Corff said. “Friends of yours?”

“I wouldn’t call them friends,” she muttered, breaking the seal. The barely legible attempt at writing immediately signified that this was not from Castillon’s hand. She glanced at the signature. Hayder. So the slimy bastard had survived the shipwreck. And somehow he knew she did, too. And ratted her out to Castillon. Of course he did. For several moments, she fantasized about gutting them both like pigs. Finally, she read the rest. Hayder wanted “an honorable duel.” Isabela snorted, crumpling the letter in her fist. Hayder was many things, but “honorable” was not one of them. Everyone from here to the Anderfels knew Isabela couldn’t resist a good duel. It was clearly a trap. She would go to his meeting spot alone, he would jump her with whoever of Kirkwall’s finest he had managed to round up. If she was lucky, she would be dead. Otherwise… best not to think of the alternative.

A familiar voice came from her left. “Ghosts from your past, Rivaini?” Varric seemed as part of the Hanged Man as the mismatched chairs and brown sauce. The dwarf had seemingly taken a shine to her, though she noticed he seemed to take a shine to almost everyone. They had shared little of the truth with each other, preferring to spend evenings bullshitting with increasingly outlandish stories. She won the last round when she claimed to have sailed beyond the Amaranthine Ocean to a land of nymphomaniac mermaids. 

“One of the many,” she sighed, rolling her empty clay tumbler around in her hands. “Tell me Varric, if you had to choose between an immediate quick death or a long, painful death somewhere in the near future, say, a few weeks at most, which would you pick?”

Varric scratched the stubble on his chin. “Well, I’d say the quick death would be better, but given my penchant for procrastination… eh, I think I know how it’d end up. How about cheating death, instead? Is that an option?”

“Unless you know someone who would be willing to go up against a pirate quartermaster and his hired thugs to save my ass, no, it’s not an option.” She waved Corff away when he motioned to refill her cup. The prospect of either fighting Hayder or waiting for him to catch her had left her nauseous.

“I imagine there’s plenty of people in this city who would find your ass one worth saving,” Varric chuckled, and Isabela couldn’t stop a small smile from breaking through her melancholy. Always a charmer, that one. “Actually, I know someone who might want to help.”

“Are you pulling my leg again?”

“Who, me? No, I’m serious. Will you be here tonight?”

“As if I have anywhere else to go.”

\----------

Isabela was glad she had the forethought to get metal studs sewn into the knuckles of her gloves. It made breaking noses much easier, if Lucky’s shattered face was any indication. She looked up from the blood puddle leaking into the slats of the wood floor and saw Varric across the bar, smiling and shaking his head, as if amused by some private joke. Next to him, standing casually with a hand on her hip, was a tall, dark-haired woman with a sword on her back big enough to cut a man eyebrows to asshole in one sweep. Isabela crossed the room, giving Lucky one more kick for good measure. He groaned, clutching at what remained of his nose, blood leaking through his fingers. Idiot.

“This is Hawke. The one I told you about.” Varric raised his eyebrows at the whimpering pile on the floor. “Though I’m still wondering how bad this pirate friend of yours has to be if you’re asking for help.” He turned to Hawke. “And this is Isabela. She likes fighting, drinking, swearing, boasting, and not wearing pants. Did I miss anything?”

They shook hands. Hawke’s grip was firm, but not too forceful. It felt confident. She held Isabela’s gaze evenly, without a trace of hesitation, straddling the blurry line between unnerving and arousing.

Isabela sized her up. Then down. Then up again. “You know, I’m not sure why, but I was expecting some big, burly man. With a beard and giant arms.”

Hawke shrugged. “Sorry to disappoint?” she said lightly, voice like steel coated in velvet. Her accent placed her as Fereldan, probably one of the many refugees that had flooded into Kirkwall since the Blight. 

Varric could deliver when he really wanted to, Isabela had to give him that. Maybe she could cheat death one more time. “Oh no, I’m not disappointed one bit. I think you’ll do just fine.”


	8. Act 1, Part 2: "Dance With Me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh Huh Her: "Dance With Me"  
>  _Lie down, just give it up_  
>  _Dance with me_  
>  _Lights out, falling away_  
>  _Into me_  
>  _Don't stop, just let it go_  
>  _Come with me_  
>  _Stay down, cuz you're burning me up_  
>  _Dance with me_

There were plenty of stereotypes about Fereldans: they were a serious, hard-working, simple people. Honest to a fault. Only slightly more civilized than barbarians. Spent so much time farming and trying to survive the winters that they wouldn’t know a good time if it knocked them upside the head. Perhaps subconsciously, having not worked with many Fereldans before, Isabela assumed Hawke would be the same.

So when Hawke asks if she wants to crash a ball at the de Launcet mansion later that evening, it is, to put it mildly, a surprise.

It shouldn’t be that much of a shock, she thinks. After spending a month in Hawke’s company doing odd jobs to finance an expedition into the Deep Roads, Isabela was learning there was more to Hawke than her background would suggest (though she did admit a certain fondness for turnips she could not explain).

Hawke was an enigma. She was hard-working to a fault, that much was true, but no one would ever describe her as “serious.” In fact, the more dire the situation, the more Hawke seemed to retreat behind jests, a habit that irked their more sober-minded companions to no end. There were, however, brief moments when the mask came down. When she was talking about her family or close friends, there was a certain quiet warmth to her words; it was clear she missed her father and brother dearly, and their loss inspired a fierce protectiveness toward her mother and sister. This protectiveness extended to the menagerie of odd characters she had attracted to her cause: a former slave from Tevinter, an apostate freedom fighter, an elf exiled from her clan, and others Hawke had managed to draw into her orbit. Isabela wasn’t sure she could trust any of them, but they all trusted Hawke somehow. She supposed she did, too. At least as far as she could trust anyone these days.

“You want to crash a ball? Weren’t you aspiring to regain your lost nobility? You don’t suppose this would put a damper on that process?” Isabela teases. Truthfully, it sounds like a welcome break from saving orphans and slaughtering gang members. It sounds like something Aveline, Hawke’s far-too-upstanding friend in the Kirkwall guard, would disapprove of. Which, logically, means it’s an excellent idea, as far as Isabela is concerned.

Hawke waves a hand dismissively. “No one in Hightown knows who my mother is anymore, much less me. Come on, it’ll be fun.” She looks so earnest, Isabela can’t help but smile.

“See, when I say, ‘come on, it’ll be fun,’ someone usually ends up permanently disfigured. Or worse.” She forces down the memories that phrase conjures back into their locked box. “But when _you_ say it, I’m not sure what to expect.” 

Hawke begins ticking points off on her fingers. “Well, you’ll have the pleasure of my company for an entire evening, for one. Two, free food and drinks. Three, if you happened to, say, sneak away from the party and ‘relieve’ the de Launcets of a few trinkets, I won’t tell Aveline. Four--”

“Hawke, please! I can only get so aroused!” Isabela swoons, with extra flourish. Hawke’s blush always starts at the tips of her ears before spreading across her cheeks. Isabela has kept track. Her score is now seventeen blushes. With any luck, she could double that number tonight. She’s not sure why she’s counting, but it’s satisfying watching Hawke become discombobulated. “Honestly, you had me at your first point.”

“Oh, very smooth,” Hawke says. “You have something proper to wear for this, right? Because I believe your usual attire is lacking something for Hightown’s taste. Like pants.”

“Don’t you worry. I have the perfect outfit, you’ll see. See you tonight.” Isabela saunters off, throwing in an extra dash of swagger for good measure. Hawke better take notice.

\------

Isabela does _not_ have the perfect outfit. She could swear she did, but realizes it was probably swallowed up by the sea with the rest of her belongings when the Siren’s Call crashed. 

She has six hours to find something to wear. With a sinking feeling, she determines this task cannot be accomplished on her own. But who to ask? Merrill? Isabela likes the shy elf well enough, but she wouldn’t know anything about what to wear to a Hightown ball. Aveline? Ugh, no. Varric could work, she thinks. He had a certain affinity for style and would know where to go more than anyone. But no, she remembers he’s busy working on plans for the expedition with his brother and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. Isabela paces the alleyway. A mangy stray cat watches with what can only be described as a particularly feline amusement. There has to be someone...

“Aha!” Suddenly, she knows just who to ask.

\------

A gray-haired, dour-faced man opens the door. He looks like someone has placed something very foul-smelling right under his nose. This, Isabela thinks, must be Hawke’s uncle.

“Yes? Can I help you?” he asks, puzzled, and he spends entirely too long looking at her chest for her comfort. It _is_ a memorable chest, she concedes, though a face still might be a better way to recognize someone.

She tries to peer around him, standing on her tiptoes, but he’s done an excellent job blocking the entire doorway, as if ashamed of his shack of a home. Isabela couldn’t care less; she’s stayed in far worse places, sometimes voluntarily. “I’m looking for—” she sees a flash of a red bandanna.

“Ah! Bethany!” she calls out, and Hawke’s sister appears at her uncle’s side.

“Isabela!” she says, the cheerful note in her voice causing Hawke’s uncle to look even _more_ sour, if that was possible.

“You know this… woman, Bethany?” he says, as though he is loathe to refer to Isabela as such. Isabela assumes the Hawke sisters’ jovial natures must come from their father’s side.

Bethany ducks under his outstretched arm and pulls Isabela down the steps with her. “Sorry about him,” she says as the door slams shut behind them. “We’ve been crammed into that house for over a year. I think we’re all going crazy.”

“Does that explain why Hawke wants me to crash a Hightown ball with her?”

Letting go of Isabela’s arm, Bethany stops in the middle of the square, turns, and stares at her like she’s sprouted a third eyeball right in the middle of her forehead. “Marian… wants you to what? Crash a ball? Seriously?”

Isabela wonders if she’s just now made a terrible mistake by letting this information slip. “Yes. I suppose this is out of character for her, then?”

Bethany closes her eyes and sighs with such great weariness that Isabela questions if Hawke is truly the older sister or not. “No,” Bethany says. “This is perfectly in character for her. You’ll keep her from getting into too much trouble, won’t you?”

“I’m… generally not the sort of person one would think to make that request of. But yes, if it will put your mind at ease, I’ll look after her.” Isabela has seen Bethany light people on fire with her mind. Getting on her bad side seems incompatible with life. 

“Good. Then I won’t tell Aveline what you’re planning.”

Isabela gasps in horror. “Oh, you are wicked! You wouldn’t! She would look at me with that disappointed mother face she does. I couldn’t bear it.”

“She does have a very strong disapproving frown, doesn’t she?” Bethany’s eyes narrow as she looks askance at Isabela. “Wait. Why are you even telling me about this in the first place?”

“Because, I, well..." Isabela suddenly feels rather silly. She does not like feeling silly. “I need to find something to wear to this thing. And I didn’t know who else to ask for help. And I thought you would know what… Hawke… likes… um. Right.” Her voice trails off into the ether like a stray wisp of smoke.

Bethany’s face cycles through several emotions in rapid succession: surprise, suspicion, understanding, elation. 

Isabela digs her grave a little deeper. “Because if we’re going to crash this ball, I need to fit in, don’t I? So I don’t get her into trouble, you know? Can’t go to Hightown dressed like a sea rat, can I?” Each sentence ends on a higher octave, and the glimmer in Bethany’s eyes makes Isabela want to fall into the center of the earth.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got an idea,” Bethany says. Mercifully, she doesn’t press the issue further. Instead, she grabs Isabela by the hand and marches off towards the bazaar like a woman on a mission.

\----------

This was a very bad idea, Isabela thinks. She has been trying on clothes for two hours. Bethany shows no sign of relenting. They have bought nothing except for a ridiculous bicorne captain’s hat with a giant plumed feather in it (“What?” Isabela said in response to Bethany’s skeptical look. “I may not technically be a captain anymore, but I can still dress like one”).

Bethany manages to find something wrong with every outfit. “Too frilly.” “Too many ruffles.” “Too much skin.” “Not enough skin.” “Too _Orlesian_.”

When Isabela dared to mention that maybe Bethany was being a touch too critical, Bethany merely responded in a sing-song voice, “Well, we can pick any old dress, but I _thought_ you were interested in impressing Marian, so…”

Is it possible to die from sheer embarrassment? Isabela can’t help but wonder.

The markets in Lowtown sell everything. Books, jewelry, “artisan” cheese, fake Antivan wine, children’s toys, goats. It reminds her a little of being back in Rivain, though Kirkwall’s market is still quite a different affair. For one, there is less screaming. And the spices here cost twenty times as much. But it still makes Isabela a little wistful, or at least as wistful as a woman like her could be.

“So… what do you think about my sister?” Bethany asks, very casual, like she was asking if Isabela could please pass the salt.

She must evade this line of questioning. There is only one way. “Bethany, do you _really_ want to know what kind of thoughts I have about your sister?”

Bethany blanches. “Oh. No. No. Forget I asked.” Success, thinks Isabela.

They’re almost at the docks when Bethany makes an odd squeaking noise and points to a lone booth tucked away in the corner. “That!” she shouts, triumphant. “Do you see it? It’s perfect!”

Isabela sees it, all right. It’s not something she ever imagined Bethany picking for her. But it will work. Oh, will it work. 

“Do you like it?” asks Bethany as they meander back through Kirkwall’s maze of streets. Gone is her teasing bravado; instead, she sounds almost bashful, as though she expects Isabela to throw it all into the mud and storm off.

“Like it? Sweetness, I can fit at _least_ five knives into this outfit. It’s lovely.”

Bethany’s smile rivals the sun. 

\------

Night has fallen on Hightown when Isabela arrives in front of the de Launcet mansion. Stopping well outside of the crowd that has already gathered outside the estate, she smooths the fringe on her epaulettes and straightens her captain’s hat. She still can’t believe Bethany found an admiral’s coat, and, even more incredible, let her wear it. It’s a little unusual, but it will work for the nobles here, she thinks. The coat is a rich dark blue, with gold embroidery along the high collar and sleeves, as well as down the front edges, with gold clasps holding it together at the front. The tails of the coat nearly hit the backs of her knees. Bethany chose simple white breeches and the blue sash tied around her waist. Isabela insisted on wearing her boots (“They’re _Antivan leather!_ ”). True to form, she cut the front of her blouse deep and wore enough jewelry to make a dragon jealous, including a gold collar around her throat seated with an enormous sapphire. She hopes Countess Adele Dufort is skipping this event, given the necklace came from her bedroom.

And, like she told Bethany, she could, in fact, hide five knives. So if the Countess wanted to start something, she would be ready.

Craning her neck to try and spot Hawke in the crowd of powdered and pampered dunces proves fruitless. For a moment, she wonders if this was some cruel joke, if Hawke never meant to do this, if she got all dressed up for nothing, if—

“Hey you,” someone behind her says in her ear. 

Isabela lets out an undignified shriek and grabs for one of the blades in her coat. Whirling around to face her assailant, she starts to utter a nasty curse before noticing exactly who is standing before her, looking only slightly uncomfortable in a floor-length gown.

“Oh. Hawke. You look… you clean up well, don’t you?”

Isabela never figured Hawke for the dress type, but she has pulled it off gloriously. Crimson brocade on top, cut to show off her muscular shoulders, edged with black lace around the bodice, falling into velvet dark as the night sea along the skirt. Someone had cinched her into a corset, too, and the effect of it sends Isabela’s mind to very impure places. Hawke’s jewelry is much more reserved compared to Isabela’s, silver to her gold. Maker, but she is stunning. Isabela has to try very hard to keep her jaw connected to her head, lest it fall right to the ground.

Hawke laughs and fidgets with the edge of her corset. “Mother had this tailored for me last week, for ‘our family’s eventual return to its proper station.’ I thought, why not try it out ahead of time? And in the house of the man my mother was betrothed to? Can’t get better than that.” She appraises Isabela’s outfit, eyes lingering in all the right places, and raises her eyebrows in approval. “And you clean up quite well yourself, Captain. I love the hat.”

Isabela ignores the sudden weakness in her knees that arises from hearing Hawke call her “Captain.” She can’t let Hawke see her sweat. “So, how are we getting in?” she asks. She could get away with sneaking through a back door or a window, but there was no way Hawke was sneaking anywhere in that dress.

“We walk in through the front door. I took a peek earlier and they’re not even checking names. So I’ll be Lady Alesia Langston, third cousin twice-removed of Teyrn Cousland, and you’ll be…”

“Captain Marie Jean-Bernard, Rivaini merchant. Good plan; the best way to get anywhere is to pretend you already belong.” Isabela hopes the real Captain Marie doesn’t mind her borrowing her name for the evening.

Hawke gives their fake names to the doorman, who lets them in with barely a glance. Anticlimactic, thinks Isabela; she was hoping for more of a challenge. The de Lancet’s estate is palatial, but smaller than she remembers Luis’s mansion being. Nobles cluster around the front landing sipping wine—Orlesians in their bizarre masks and elaborate dresses, Free Marchers in their satin and furs. Isabela sticks out like a sore thumb, but that’s been the theme of her entire adult life. She passes by their stares unfazed. Let them look.

Feeling quite the gentleman, she holds her elbow out for Hawke to take as they descend the stairs, while grabbing a glass with a sliver of dark red wine from a servant’s tray with her free hand. Taking a sip, she sighs. Antivan dry. It’s been a while. Hawke glances at her, and Isabela smiles in a way she hopes is reassuring. The past is past, she tells herself. Best to leave it there.

A gargantuan crystal chandelier lights the cavernous dancefloor, already filled with couples milling about. Isabela scopes out the room in case they need to make a quick escape. There are two large arched doorways to her left, leading to the balcony. To her right on the far wall is a smaller, simple door; she guesses that leads to the servant’s quarters. Two staircases line the walls in front on either side. At the top of their landing is another large door. Probably to the bedrooms. The band is against the back wall, between the staircases. They better not be Orlesian bards, or things could get messy.

“May I?” Hawke gestures to the wine glass. Isabela doesn’t see the servant with the wine tray anywhere, so she hands the glass over.

“Not bad. Is this Antivan?” Hawke asks. Isabela realizes Hawke has probably never had proper Antivan wine before. That would need to be remedied, even if she had to steal a bottle of it from here tonight.

“It is indeed. One of the drier varieties, but still sweeter than Orlesian reds.” Hawke hands the glass back, and Isabela drains it before a servant swoops in from seemingly thin air to retrieve it.

She looks around for more drinks, or canapés, or some other free delectables, determined to not leave until she’s cleaned at least two trays herself. Hawke can help, she supposes. The band starts a new song, and there is a gentle tap on her shoulder.

Turning back, she sees Hawke holding her hand out, head slightly bowed. “Care for a dance, Captain?” 

Well, this is unexpected. “Do you even know how to dance?” Isabela asks with what she hopes sounds more like amused skepticism than criticism.

Hawke, thankfully, appears not to take offense, shrugging sheepishly like a guilty child caught playing in a mud puddle. “Not one bit. Mother always said I should learn, but I never listened. I thought it was stupid.” From what she knows about Hawke and her mother, this does not surprise Isabela at all. “I assumed I would just sort of… make it up as we went along. Do _you_ know how to dance?”

“Dead fancy Antivan husband, remember? It was part of my mandatory etiquette classes.” One side of her mouth raises in a rueful half-smile. “Shame this was the only thing that stuck. I guess I’m not meant for polite society.”

“It’s all right. I like you better that way.”

Isabela blinks a few times. Full of surprises, this one. “Me, too,” she says quietly, words nearly lost in the din, finally taking Hawke’s offered hand. “Right, let me remember the positioning…” It seems logical that she should lead, being the more experienced of the pair, so she places Hawke’s left hand on her shoulder, next to the epaulette. Her own right hand trails down Hawke’s corset laces before settling on her lower back. Her left hand and Hawke’s right clasp together with a modicum of fumbling. Closing her eyes, she takes a deep breath and tries to conjure what feels like ancient memories. It proves difficult to extricate good memories from bad, to separate her dance instructor’s gentle guidance from Luis’s disdainful glower in the background, his neverending parade of leering merchant friends. Stop, she commands herself. Focus. Forcing herself into the present, she concentrates on the warmth of Hawke’s back under her palm, the scent of her perfume, the swell of the music.

She opens her eyes. Hawke’s brow is furrowed, jaw set like she is about to go into battle. The absurdity of her expression is a relief, easing the tension in Isabela’s shoulders. “Are you nervous?” she says, and Hawke’s face softens. The tips of her ears go pink. Ah, there’s number eighteen.

“A little,” Hawke admits. “I’m afraid I’m clueless.”

“It’s not so different from swordfighting, really. Less bloodshed, though.” She pauses and considers the number of assassinations she’s borne witness to at Antivan parties, then adds, “Well, at least at southern balls.” She guides Hawke through a simple box step. Fortunately, Hawke is a quick learner, and after a few bumped knees, seems to figure it out.

Isabela gradually adds in some turns, circling their isolated corner of the dancefloor, and once Hawke seems more comfortable, goes in for the strike: “You wore your sister’s perfume, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?” Hawke’s blush creeps from her ears to across her cheeks. Oh, this is too easy, thinks Isabela. She’ll be up to thirty points in no time.

“I can’t imagine you would pick something so floral on your own accord.” She tilts her head to put her mouth next to Hawke’s ear. Lilacs. That’s the top note. “But don’t worry. If you like, I can get you covered in sweat later, and we’ll see if that suits you better.”

Hawke doesn’t shy away from their proximity. “I don’t think you could get me out of this corset. It took three people just to get me into it.”

“Oh, have some faith. I’ve had plenty of practice getting women out of corsets. Or, you could keep it on. That could be fun.” Now _that_ was an enjoyable picture.

“I think it would have to come off. Bedding me requires a lot of hard work, you understand.” A deft parry.

Isabela, undeterred, fires back. “I’d be willing to put in the effort for such a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Are you sure you could satisfy me? I’m not an easy woman to please.” The grip on Isabela’s shoulder tightens slightly.

Such a tease, she thinks, but a challenge is a challenge. “Trust me, Hawke. By the time I’m done with you, you won’t be able to move, or think, or remember your own name.” Her lips graze Hawke’s earlobe. “Just mine.”

Their moment is interrupted by a smattering of polite clapping from the other guests. The song is over. Somewhat reluctantly, they pull apart; Isabela can’t recall when exactly they had moved so close together, close enough to feel Hawke’s chest as she inhaled, the voluminous fabric of her skirts the only thing preventing Isabela’s thigh from nestling in the juncture of Hawke’s legs.

Isabela finds she could use some more wine. And a cold bath. Balls, she wasn’t supposed to be the one getting all flushed tonight. But all she can think of is getting Hawke into a dark, private corner and pushing her skirts up around her waist and—

Hawke looks at her like a cat with a mouse, lips curving into the smile of someone who has just figured out they won a game they didn’t even know they were playing. She says the one thing Isabela is dying to hear: “Take me home?”

Isabela at least has the presence of mind to fill her pockets with canapés and tuck a bottle of wine into her coat as they leave. She’ll be damned if there’s no after-sex food.

\------

“I’m realizing that walking home in these outfits was not my brightest idea,” Hawke deadpans as they pick their way down the endless stairs to Lowtown. “We might as well be wearing signs that say ‘Hey muggers! Please attack us!’ And, before you ask, I wanted to bring my sword with me but you know, it just didn’t match my shoes.”

“I have two knives in my boots, one in my waistband, and two more in my coat. We’ll be fine.” She considers replacing the feather in her captain’s hat with one that has a tiny blade embedded into the shaft. One can never have too many knives, after all.

Hawke stares at her with concern. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified,” she says, and the correct answer, thinks Isabela, is “both.”

“I tend to have that effect on people.”

They walk in silence for a while, the occasional dog bark or owl hoot breaking up the monotony of boots on stone steps. In other cities Isabela had spent time in, the nobles isolated themselves from the “common folk” with high walls and gates capped with iron spikes. Somehow, a mile-long staircase seems far more humiliating. Anyone _could_ climb to Hightown, if they had capable legs. But the effort required makes it so unappealing. Easier to stare up into the sky from the shadows cast by the estates and curse the misfortune of your birth. Isabela wonders if Hawke will change when the viscount grants their title. She can’t imagine Hawke strutting around like the other nobles, but money changes people. She’s seen it happen countless times before. It even changed _her_... for a little while.

“I bet you’ll be happy not to have to make this walk again when your family gets their estate back,” she remarks offhandedly. “But come back and visit us peasants sometime, will you?”

Hawke makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. It echoes down the steps, into the night air. “You must be joking. I could barely last half an hour at that party. And we didn’t even talk to anyone! I can’t imagine suffering through a full conversation with people like that.” She sighs. “No. I’m getting the estate back for Mother. This was her life; it was never mine. She’s been so depressed since Carver died. I hope reclaiming the Amell name will… well, it won’t fix everything, will it? But I have to do something.”

“With a brother like your uncle, I would be depressed, too,” Isabela grouses.

“When did you meet Uncle Gamlen?”

Oh, shit. _Think, Isabela, think_ … “Oh, at… the Blooming Rose. He’s a popular customer there, you know.” She congratulates herself on the good save. She _had_ seen his name on the books and heard all the gossip from the workers about his fetishes (things she _really_ wishes she could unhear), but, thank the Maker, has never seen him there in the flesh.

Fortunately, Hawke buys it. “Oh, gross. I hope you don’t pick up any of his leftovers.”

“Ugh, Hawke, really,” Isabela grimaces. “I assure you, our tastes in women are worlds apart.” For one, Gamlen seemed to favor curvy blondes, and Isabela, apparently, had a thing for lean, dark-haired Fereldans.

The stolen canapés are gone, victims of the hunger borne from their long downstairs slog, but Hightown is fast disappearing behind them. It’s easy to tell when one is nearing Lowtown. The steps go from wide, sharply carved granite to narrow, pockmarked limestone, crumbling from years of people beginning the trek to Hightown, then thinking no, best not try that today, and turning around. Torches become fewer and fewer, and whole alleyways in Lowtown are swathed in complete darkness at night. It’s noisier, too. Drunken revelers roam the streets, howling at the moon like dogs, volume control obliterated in that special way only alcohol can do, alongside the murmurs of less “honorable” citizens plying their trades in corners and storefronts. Aveline and the other guards run patrols down here, but trying to clean up Lowtown is like trying to dry the ocean with a rag. Isabela prefers it that way. In her experience, the places claiming to be the most pristine are often the dirtiest. At least Lowtown is honest about its filth.

She could do without the smell, though.

Keeping a hand within easy reach of her daggers proves unnecessary, as they make it to the residential district without harassment. Well, armed harassment. There were a few appreciative whistles. Isabela’s heartbeat, calmed somewhat since their dance at the de Launcet’s, ratchets back up. If she can get Hawke back to her room at the Hanged Man…

“Well, here we are. Home sweet home,” Hawke says—her tone suggests there is nothing “sweet” about it— but she makes no move toward the door.

Patting the wine bottle in her coat, Isabela replies, “But we still have this lovely bottle of Antivan red to work through. Could I convince you to come to the Hanged Man for drinks?” She steps next to Hawke and runs a hand down her back. “Maybe loosen those laces a bit?”

“I think my organs must have rearranged themselves, because it’s almost starting to get comfortable.” Hawke leans in, hooks two fingers into the sash tied around Isabela’s waist. “But that _is_ a tempting offer.” 

The red painted on Hawke’s lips appears crimson in the moonlight; Isabela imagines the marks those lips would leave covering her entire body and shivers. Hawke is winning this battle, but Isabela is willing to sacrifice some level of control now to make up for it tenfold later, when she has Hawke writhing underneath her.

“I promise I’ll make it worth your while,” she purrs, sliding both hands around Hawke’s waist, waiting for a signal, any signal, permission to discharge the electricity sparking across her skin.

Hawke grants it. “Then prove it,” she demands, pulling Isabela into a kiss.

Isabela has never been a patient woman. She wants what she wants, and she wants it all. Now. She has to force every feral instinct down, temper the fire pooling in her core, to savor Hawke’s lips slowly, like a fine wine. To draw this out as long as she can stand it. Her fingertips claw at the corset ribbing, irritation at the layers conspiring to separate them dragging the smallest of groans from her throat. 

Hawke’s mouth curves into a smile in response, her fingers firm against the back of Isabela’s neck, tangling in rebellious strands of hair escaping from her hat. Her breath comes just a touch faster than usual, her other hand gripping the fabric of Isabela’s blouse hard, betraying her desire, foiling her attempt at composure.

This realization is thrilling. Isabela pushes the attack, fingers under the corner of Hawke’s jaw, tilting her head to the side, wet heat as tongues slip past lips to meet. She treasures each and every one of the quiet moans she earns, so quiet they’re felt rather than heard—the spoils of war, to be hoarded like gold coins.

And then, as quick as it began, Hawke eases back, reduces the tempo, lets the night air come between their bodies as she pulls away, leaving one more lingering kiss burning against Isabela’s lips. 

“Not yet?” asks Isabela as calmly as she can, working very hard to keep both desire and frustration at bay. It’s a challenge.

Hawke is all dignified poise, like she wasn’t just trying to pull Isabela’s shirt off scant moments before, like the fire in her eyes and the rosy tinge on her cheeks doesn’t give her away. “The best things in life are worth waiting for, Captain.” She gently straightens Isabela’s hat, knocked askew earlier. “I told you it wouldn’t be that easy.”

Isabela knows when to cut her losses, when to bow out. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to do something you’re not ready for. You know the invitation’s still there; my door will be unlocked if you change your mind. But I hope you won’t be too bothered if I need to find someone to take care of…” She gestures toward her pants. “... what you’ve done to me.” Hawke won’t get the satisfaction of making her beg for it, no matter the lust screaming in her veins. She’s far too proud for that.

“Oh, I would hope for nothing less.” Hawke flashes a parting smile, equal parts wicked and exultant. “Goodnight, Isabela. Sweet dreams.” 

Isabela watches her climb the steps and open the door gently to avoid waking her family at this midnight hour. Then she’s gone. 

The bottle of wine feels heavy in a way she didn’t notice before. Taking it out of her coat and holding it in her hand, she looks at the gold label. _Seleny Red, Family Estate Grown. Bottled 9:28 Dragon. Notes of blackcurrant and cedar_. It’s just one bottle, she thinks. That won’t be nearly enough, but it can take the edge off.

“There aren’t enough fucking grapes in Antiva,” she mutters, beginning the lonely march to the Hanged Man.


	9. Act 1, Part 3: "Paradise Lost"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GaIn: "Paradise Lost"  
>  _I feel. I’m real  
>  지금 넌 어디야 (where are you right now)  
> 지금 난 거의 다 paradise (right now, I'm almost at paradise)  
> I’m here. I’m yours  
> 이것만 기억해 (just remember this)  
> You and I, another paradise_
> 
> Takes place immediately after previous chapter.

The Hanged Man is packed to the gills when she stalks through the door. Every possible seat is occupied, and likely has been for hours by folks not willing to give up their prime real estate to vultures. Other patrons perch at the ends of tables, lean against the walls, or squeeze in between the stools at the bar, bumping elbows. A few are even crammed in the staircase up to the rooms, tankards on the steps, guarded from unwary feet. Their combined voices mix and layer until there’s nothing left but a dull roar in her ears, a recipe for an instant headache. Sleep would not come easy tonight, she could tell immediately.

Norah, the waitress, spots her and sweeps over. “Isabela, you’re late!” she chides. She stops and peers through narrowed eyes at Isabela’s clothes, then mouth, before flashing a knowing smile. “Ah, but you’ve been on a date, haven’t you? With a nice lass, by the looks of the red smeared all over you. Or a nice fellow who enjoys painting his lips; I don’t judge.”

Isabela briefly considers wiping the sleeve of her coat across her mouth, but no. She’ll wear Hawke’s paint on her like a badge of honor. “I promise I’ll share all the juicy details with you tomorrow, Norah,” she says, stifling a yawn. “Right now I need a stiff drink and my bed.” 

“Ooh, I can’t tell if that’s good news or bad news,” she giggles, and, honestly, Isabela can’t tell at this point, either. Norah snatches a tumbler of amber liquid off her tray and presses it into Isabela’s hands. “Just take this. Corvin bought it, but it looks like he’s outside puking. I told him not to get the brown sauce!”

A quick thank you and Isabela is off, maneuvering across the bar through the crowd, drink clutched to her chest like a lover, saying hello to those she knows, fending off those she doesn't, avoiding questions from all. She could have any of them, she thinks, looking like this, with a simple whispered invitation. But it’s not what she wants. They’re not who she wants. Strangers. They don’t know her. Her skin crawls under the weight of their eyes. There’s a storm in her head, dark billowing clouds and crashing thunder, twisting her lips into a sneer, pushing her up the steps two at a time. The wine bottle in her coat thuds painfully against her ribs. 

She throws the drink down her throat as soon as her door has barely shut behind her, doing little to muffle the bedlam from the floor below. It’s like wrapping one’s lips around a smokestack and sucking a lungful in. Coughing and blinking back tears, she sets the empty tumbler on the table along with the bottle of Antivan red and her hat. She tears off her coat, throwing it onto the back of a chair with far more aggression than it deserves, and drops onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. 

She stares at the bottle. The bottle stares back. “You were supposed to be shared,” she accuses it. “And right now I’m supposed to be fucking Hawke until she can’t see straight, but life’s not fair, is it? So we can both just sit here unopened and grow bitter.” Seleny Red does not reply, for which she is very grateful. 

“Play hard to get with _me_ , will she…” she grumbles as she unbuckles her boots, top to bottom. “Leaving me bloody soaked from just a few kisses, ugh!” Her blouse is tossed somewhere across the room. “What am I, some heaving-bosomed, blushing maiden?” Seven rings, four earrings, and Countess Dufort’s overpriced necklace go on top of the chest next to the bed. “Andraste’s tits, and what now? I could get plowed by some dockhand downstairs but I don’t even _want it!_ ” She growls and kicks away the pants now in a heap at her feet; they skid to a stop under the table.

Flopping back onto the bed with a huff, legs hanging off the side, she stares at the ceiling. “Hello! Here I am, naked and aching for it!” she yells, not caring who might hear, hoping her voice carries all the way to the residential district. “But you’re not coming, are you? Well, thank you _very_ fucking much, Hawke, because I’m not, either!”

It’s stupid to throw a tantrum over something so ridiculous, she knows it. But, dammit, she deserves a proper tantrum every once in a while.

“You could be having _this_ right now,” she slides a finger down, dipping into wetness, then up, hissing through her teeth, “but you’re not.” Her legs flex, toes skirting the rough wood floor. “Your mouth could be _here_ ,” a gasp, a shudder rippling down her spine. “But it’s not.” She opens her legs wider, brings her left hand down to join her right. “These could be _your_ fingers instead of mine,” a primal groan, muscles contracting, back arching, “but they’re not.” 

A whispered blasphemy. “If you could see what you’ve done to me…” Awash in a haze of lust, skin on fire. Hips snap forward, taking two fingers in, then three. “I would be better than anyone you’ve had before.” It’s getting harder to think complete thoughts—just flashes of Hawke on top of her, under her, in ecstasy. Tiny circles with her right hand, slower, faster, toes curling. “I’d make you scream.” Explosions behind her eyelids. And, above it all, silent pleas to the phantom lover in her mind—no longer too proud to beg.

She realizes too late that she has no free hands to clamp over her mouth. Biting down on her lower lip hard enough to bruise, a snarl tears itself free from somewhere deep in her chest and forces its way out through her clenched jaw. Her head slams back into the mattress, held breath bursting out of her all at once, waves crashing in her skull. Tension, release, tension, release. 

Reality floods back in as she collapses onto the bed, a panting mess, pulse thrumming in her temples and throbbing between her legs. She wipes her fingers off on the sheets, rolls over, and drags the rest of herself into bed, a task made much more difficult by weak and shaking limbs. Getting under the blankets requires far too much effort, so she grabs a stray pillow and curls her body around it. “All right, you win,” she says, acquiescing, defeated, and stares into darkness, willing sleep to take her.


	10. Act 1, Part 4: "Hey Pretty"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poe: "Hey Pretty"  
>  _Hey pretty_  
>  _Don't you wanna take a ride with me_  
>  _Through my world?_
> 
> Inspired by an ambient conversation heard in the Docks district: "Sometimes I come to the docks just to look at the boats."

Isabela wasn’t planning on having company along for her walk to the docks. Solitary treks were her sanctuary, a moment to breathe. She could spend hours wandering the city, just thinking. Or not thinking at all, if that was the safer choice that particular day.

She wasn’t planning on having company, but she found herself knocking on Hawke’s door anyway. Though, upon further consideration, Hawke might not even be home; with the expedition nearly funded, she was out planning with Varric and Anders more often than not. Isabela hoped she wouldn’t run into Gamlen again. He was at the Rose the week before. “You’re one of Marian’s little friends, aren’t you? Don’t tell her mother you saw me here,” he said. Then he _winked_. They did not make a soap that could scrub _that_ feeling away.

Thunderous barks answered her behind the door. Isabela had never been formally introduced to Hawke’s mabari. She knew his name was Brutus, that he followed Hawke around closer than her own shadow, and he could fit a man’s head in his jaws, but that was it. Hopefully, he didn’t have a taste for pirate flesh (hopefully, she thought, his master did).

“Hush, you!” came Hawke’s voice followed by her face as she opened the door. Her eyes lit up. “Isabela? Well, isn’t this a surprise!” 

“What, I can’t visit a friend in her own home?” Maybe a friend that she kissed sometimes, had sexual fantasies about sometimes (all right, a lot of times), but a friend nonetheless. Isabela’s definition of “friend” was, admittedly, a flexible one.

“I’m just shocked you decided to leave the Hanged Man this close to sunset. I thought you had a schedule to keep.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. Hawke ought to know, given how much time _she_ spent at the Hanged Man, herself. “Oh, ha ha. I don’t spend _every_ night at the bar, you know. Just… most of them.”

“Is there something you needed me for?” Hawke asked. Brutus had squeezed his head around her hip and was staring rather suspiciously, Isabela decided, like he was sizing her up for a snack. Or maybe just judging her. She glared back. She refused to be judged by a creature that licked his balls and rolled in shit.

It was such a simple thing to ask; Isabela didn’t understand why she felt so awkward about it. “I… I was planning on taking a walk to the docks, and I thought maybe you would, you know…” 

“Go with you?” Hawke offered, sounding genuinely surprised, the incredulity belying her typical nonchalant attitude. Isabela took that as a positive sign.

“Yes. If you wanted to, anyway. I know you’re busy these days.”

“I was actually just going to take Brutus for a quick jaunt to stretch his legs. Do you mind if he came with us? He gets so bored cooped up in this tiny house all day.” Upon hearing his name, Brutus tilted his head sideways and let out a happy “woof!”

“He’s not going to eat me, is he? Because I imagine I’m very stringy and gamey-tasting.” She cursed herself for not thinking fast enough to turn that into an innuendo.

“If he was going to eat you, you’d already be missing limbs.” Isabela couldn’t argue with that logic. Hawke gave the mabari a few pats on his great tree trunk of a neck. “Brutus, go be polite and say hello to Isabela. She’s good people.”

Brutus bounded out of the house and barrelled straight for Isabela. She braced for impact. Stopping just short of where she stood, he sniffed at her hand, gave it a small lick, then spun around in a circle, slamming his rear end into her stomach. “What the—oof!” she sputtered as the wind was knocked out of her.

“Awww, he likes you!” Hawke cheered, clasping her hands together. “He wants bum scratches!”

Isabela used all the dueling tricks in her considerable repertoire to keep from falling over at the onslaught of overwhelming canine glee. “He wants _what?"_

“Scratch the spot above his tail! He loves it!” Hawke looked like a child at a birthday party when the cake is brought out. It was, Isabela had to admit, very endearing.

“All right, fine. Is this what you want?” Using both hands, she scratched vigorously just north of Brutus’s rapidly wagging nub of a tail. He seemed extremely pleased with himself.

Brutus launched to the bottom of the steps leading to the courtyard. With a full-body wiggle, he dropped into a bow, sprang up into the air, whirled around twice, and barked. Apparently, he was eager to get going.

Hawke placed a hand on Isabela’s shoulder. “I’ll make a dog-lord out of you yet, just you wait,” she said with a grin.

“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” Isabela replied. She eyed Hawke’s backside like a wolf eyes a lamb. “And does his master also enjoy being rubbed on the bum?”

Hawke waggled her eyebrows. “You’ll have to find out, won’t you?” She dodged the incoming ass-swat and jumped down the stairs to join her dog, who expressed his anticipation by headbutting her in the stomach.

“I hope he’s not one of those dogs that pees all over when he gets excited,” Isabela grumbled, following behind.

\------

Visiting Kirkwall’s docks was an exercise in vicarious pleasure. If she stood on the edge of the steps leading into the water and the wind was blowing at just the right speed to whip the saltwater into spray, if she closed her eyes and swayed a bit, she could pretend she was back on a boat instead of trapped in Kirkwall. But she had to open her eyes eventually. To see the ground under her feet and the ships in the harbor, none of them hers. It was a bittersweet pain, this game she played, but it didn’t stop her from playing it as often as she could.

Isabela couldn’t help feeling a flutter of excitement when the sprawl of Lowtown receded, when she heard the seagulls and the bells of ships coming into port, smelled the wet brine of the sea. This was as close to home as home could be.

“So, what errand did you come here for?” Hawke asked, breaking the reverie.

“What errand?”

Hawke cocked an eyebrow. “You know, the reason we came here?”

Isabela shrugged. “There’s no reason. I just like to come here to look at the boats.”

“Really? That seems so… sentimental.” Hawke looked at her with… it was hard to tell. Warmth tempered with sadness. Sympathy. Isabela hoped it wasn’t pity. She hated being pitied. Hawke turned her head to the horizon, to the boats listing calmly in the still harbor. “You really miss it, don’t you?” she asked.

What did she miss? Sailing? Raiding? “I’m not good at staying in one place for too long,” she explained with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Makes me itchy.” Freedom. The option of leaving when things got bad. And things always got bad. It was only a matter of time until Kirkwall-things got bad, until Hawke-things got bad. It was her curse, and the only thing she could do about it was be a hundred leagues out to sea when the things she touched inevitably shattered apart.

Hawke wasn’t aware, blissfully oblivious that the woman she spoke to was a hurricane made human. “You’re telling me Kirkwall’s not your dreamland? I simply can’t believe it,” she quipped. 

Isabela deflected. “You don’t miss Ferelden? That little town you grew up in?” Hawke had told her about it. Lothering, she thought it was called. “A few hundred people living in a mud puddle along the Imperial Highway that no one remembers unless lords are fighting over it” was how Hawke described it. But the nostalgic sparkle in her eyes when she talked about throwing snowballs at her father or stealing the neighbor’s horses with her brother for midnight rides gave her away.

“No, I just _love_ breathing in chokedamp and being treated like a pestilence upon this delightful city,” Hawke said flatly. She sighed and dropped her hand to Brutus’s shoulder; the mabari leaned against her in response. “Honestly? Sometimes I miss it. Maybe it’s not about the place, specifically. Maybe I just miss Father and Carver and the naivety of youth. But,” she rocked back on her heels and waved a hand out at the sea, “it’s a big world. There’s a lot I haven’t seen yet.”

An unbidden thought: _I could show you all of it_. The vineyards of Antiva, the white sands in Rivain, and places Isabela had never been, ripe for discovery. Orlais, Nevarra, shit, even Tevinter and the Anderfels. 

“Where do you go to look at the boats?” Hawke asked, and Isabela was immensely grateful for the interruption of _that_ particularly frightening line of thought.

“If the work is light that day, above the quays, where they haul the cargo. If it’s too busy, or if I want to be alone… on a roof.”

Hawke looked skeptical. “On a roof?”

Isabela felt almost insulted that Hawke would doubt her climbing skills. “The harbormaster’s office still has loads of scaffolding around it from when they had to fix his broken windows. Not too hard to scurry up. But I’m not sure we could haul Brutus up there.” He made a whining noise that morphed into a grumble. “Maybe if you were a cat you could do it. Oh, don’t look at me all pathetic like that; I was only joking!” 

Brutus pinned his ears against his skull and buried his head in the crook of Hawke’s elbow. “Aw, my poor baby Brutus,” said Hawke, saccharine sweet, “did that mean pirate hurt your feelings?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll let you hump my leg later, will that help?” Isabela threw her hands up in defeat and started walking toward the quays.

“Was that offer for me or the dog?” Hawke yelled after her. 

Isabela smiled to herself and kept walking.

Sunset was the best time to boat-watch. Most of the dockhands were done working for the day, retreating to their homes or the taverns, but last minute ships still pulled into port, attempting to drop anchor before the harbor closed and they were forced to wait outside the city’s boundaries until morning. And of course, the aesthetics were unparalleled: blue water giving way to orange crests, white foam and sails tinged to lavender, birds black against the sky as they circled the masts.

Isabela settled into her usual spot along the upper walkway, legs dangling over the side, heels of her boots tapping against the limestone wall. To her right, Brutus flopped down with a huff, massive brick of a head resting on his front paws. Hawke curled up next to him, legs folded underneath her, using the mabari’s body as an armrest.

“I can’t imagine this is very exciting for you,” Isabela ventured. She doubted Hawke got shivers from fore-and-aft rigging like she did. The curve of a polished, tight-fitted hull probably didn’t give her the tingles. If there was anything in the world Isabela wanted to “make love” to, it was a boat. 

The sunset lit Hawke’s face on fire, orange and yellow sparks fighting the crystalline blue of her irises, the tips of her hair swallowed by light. “I’ll admit I know as much about ships as I do Qunari mating rituals. Which is, to say, not one bit,” she said, with that lopsided wry smile Isabela was starting to admire, much to her chagrin.

“Well, Qunari mating rituals don’t exist, as far as I know.” She imagined it involved some Tamassran grabbing you and another person and declaring, “the demands of the Qun require you to fuck,” and that was that. “But ships…” She stopped to think, scanning the port for something simple to start with. “Look at that one over there, anchored by the wharf. That’s a typical cargo ship, probably similar to what you came in on, right?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I don’t think I’ve ever thrown up so much in my life, and I’ve tried Corff’s brown sauce before.” Hawke wrinkled her nose. “But… tell me more. What’s that one over there used for?”

So Isabela told her more. Cutters, schooners, brigantines and galleons. Different types of rigging, flag codes, halyards, jibs and topsails and royals, square versus triangular sails, main-, fore-, and mizzen-masts, the various positions of crewmen, the intricacies of ship-to-ship combat. As the captain, how she would handle heave, sway, and surge at the wheel, and how to prepare for bad weather at sea. She described every detail of the Siren’s Call with the reverence of a Chantry sister, from the tip of her mainmast to the bottom of her bilge. She didn’t even notice the sun sinking into the horizon, or the way Hawke’s smirk had given way to a full grin that crinkled the corners of her eyes, or how their fingers were brushing together between Brutus’s shoulder blades.

By the time she finished, stars were beginning to materialize in the rapidly darkening sky, and the sun was merely a shallow sliver above the waves. Isabela carefully moved her hand back to her lap, determined not to let Hawke misinterpret the accidental contact as anything other than a coincidence. Brutus, apparently not one for lectures on sailing, was snoring softly, warm furry bulk leaning against Isabela’s hip.

“Sorry,” she said, suddenly embarrassed. “You probably didn’t need that level of detail.”

“I loved it,” Hawke replied, so softly it was nearly swept away by the breeze. “Thank you.”

Isabela felt an odd sensation in her chest that she decided, rather firmly, must be due to ships. And if it wasn’t, she was going to hold a pillow over its face and suffocate it, rip it out by the roots, burn it to bones and ash. Because she was a hurricane, and she would not let herself forget it. “We should get back to Lowtown,” she announced, despite—in some deep, dark corner of her heart—wanting nothing more than to keep doing exactly what they were doing until the sun came back up over the harbor.

“Come on, you big lug, let’s get going,” Hawke whispered to Brutus, gently rubbing his back. Lazily and with great effort, as though Hawke had asked for something monumental, he clambered upright with a yawn and a hefty stretch. Isabela and Hawke were soon to follow, flexing out the creaking stiffness settled into their joints. 

__

Isabela started to walk away, Brutus at her heels, when she heard her name. She turned. Hawke had the look of someone who was putting a great deal of effort into seeming like they’re not putting effort into anything. “The expedition is tomorrow,” she said, apropos of nothing. “We’re leaving early.”

__

“I see,” Isabela said, feeling that same odd sensation again, but this time inverted, like breathing chokedamp. Like her lungs were in a vice. “Are you worried?”

__

Hawke’s mouth drew into a fine, straight line. “No. Are you?”

__

“No. You and Varric know how to handle yourselves.” If Hawke could lie, so could she. “But, better give you a kiss for good luck, in case I don’t catch you tomorrow.”

__

“Yes, just to be safe.”

__

Isabela was becoming familiar with the unique peculiarities of kissing Hawke. The contours of her lips, her eyelashes, the rhythm of her breathing. The way she always tilted her head to the right, the tiny satisfied sounds she made when Isabela pulled her lower lip between her teeth. The way her fingers always ended up tangled in Isabela’s hair, how she melted when kissed at a certain spot just under her ear.

__

It was not enough. It was never enough. Isabela approached sex like she approached dueling: there was something to be learned from every opponent and every lover. She wanted to memorize Hawke’s body with her hands and mouth, every inch of it, down to the last freckle. To study each reaction, the academics of passion. To find a particular place, pace, and motion to drive her insane. To make her come as many times as possible in one evening, then beat that record the next evening, then the next—to leave her simultaneously empty and so, so full. It was a challenge she was dying to take on. But Hawke was cautious, guarded with her affections, never allowing herself to lose control. So, for the first time in her life, Isabela decided she ought to learn patience.

__

It helped that she very much enjoyed kissing Hawke.

__

The trio walked back to Lowtown, draped in the sort of heavy, slightly anxious silence felt by those who have the sneaking suspicion things are very soon going to change irrevocably. Like trying to hold onto sand.

__


	11. Act 1, Part 5: "Radioactive"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marina and the Diamonds: "Radioactive"
> 
> _My heart is nuclear_   
>  _Love is all that I fear_   
>  _I'm turning radioactive_   
>  _My blood is radioactive_
> 
> Content warning for alcohol abuse. And buckets of angst, but you expected that by now, didn't you?

Isabela wasn’t worried. She wouldn’t even keep track of the days since the expedition started. Hawke had a good team around her: Anders was a Grey Warden, after all, no matter how much he wanted to deny it, and had experience battling darkspawn and venturing miles underground. Bethany and Hawke were, of course, inseparable, their bond forged by survival through loss. On a practical level, their skills complemented each other well: Hawke could take point, shrugging off hits that would fell someone with less armor, keeping enemies engaged and on their heels with her sword, with Bethany slinging fire and ice from behind. And Varric and Bartrand were dwarves, so surely they must have some innate sense of direction underground. Varric being born on the surface was a fact she chose to ignore. They had a whole team with them. Hawke would be fine. No one could disembowel darkspawn like she could.

Hawke hadn’t asked her to accompany the expedition. It was not especially heartbreaking. Isabela made no secret her hatred of confined spaces, and the thought of venturing miles (Maker’s balls, _miles!_ ) underground, to places with air that hadn’t encountered lungs in a thousand years, made her heart want to escape her chest. And, despite her extensive travels, Isabela had never _seen_ darkspawn, much less fought them, and she was in no hurry to learn. No, best to leave that—and Deep Roads spelunking—to the professionals.

With more free time now that she wasn’t running jobs with Hawke, Isabela needed something to do. To stave off the boredom, and for other, more sentimental reasons she didn’t want to think too much about, she started taking Brutus for daily walks down to the docks. Maker knows Gamlen, who spent more time in the beds at the Blooming Rose than his own, or Leandra, who never spoke a word, only stared into the fireplace or prayed, wouldn’t walk the dog. So it was up to her, she decided. Fortunately, Brutus had taken a shine to her, doing his best to knock her over and slobber all over her face every time she came to the house. “I wish Hawke greeted me with this kind of enthusiasm,” she complained once, wiping the drool off her cheek. Gamlen shot her a puzzled glare, and all she could do was smile and wave goodbye with dog in tow.

Brutus was not his usual self one day when she came to pick him up. He greeted her with barely a wag of his tail, ears pressed to his head. Instead of leaping around on their walk, scaring pigeons and small children, he plodded behind her, head down, looking exceptionally glum. Even when she bought him a snack, he sniffed at it once, then left it on the ground. _That_ , she knew, meant something was seriously wrong.

“What’s the matter, baby Brutus?” she cooed, rubbing his ears. “You always love fried rat on a stick! Are you sick?” 

No answer. Not that she really expected one, despite Hawke insisting Brutus understood speech. He was still a dog, after all, thought Isabela.

If it wasn’t physical sickness, perhaps it was lovesickness. “You miss your master, don’t you?” she tried.

Brutus nuzzled his head into her side and gave a small “woof.” Ah, that answered it. Maybe he did understand a little.

“Don’t worry, sweet thing,” she reassured him. “You know the Hawke sisters are very capable women when it comes to killing things. I have no doubt they will return full of tales of glory, with riches spilling from their arms, and the world will be rid of a few dozen darkspawn in the process. Now come on, be a good boy and eat your rat. I still have to teach you about tacking and jibing.”

\------

Visiting Hawke’s friends proved another surefire way to while away the hours. Though, “pestering” might be a more apt description, especially when it came to the newly-minted Guard-Captain Aveline, who was so easy to annoy it was almost tedious. Isabela’s new favorite method of bothering Aveline involved trying to seduce the guards in her patrols, right under her nose. It rarely worked, as the guards were exceptionally disciplined under the guard captain’s command, but it was unparalleled fun watching just how red Aveline’s face could get.

But she couldn’t even earn herself a proper glower. Instead, Aveline acted like Isabela wasn’t even there, which was somehow more degrading than her harshest insults. “I don’t like this,” Aveline said, watchful gaze never leaving the Lowtown bazaar. “It’s only been a week, but this expedition… it doesn’t sit right with me. I should’ve gone with them. Hawke can’t protect everyone.”

“Somehow I doubt the viscount would approve of his guard captain galavanting underground for a month.” Aveline was so distracted, Isabela was certain she could swipe the shield right off her back.

Aveline continued unabated, like she was talking to a wall: “Leandra came to the barracks and begged me to keep Bethany from going. She wanted me to _detain_ her. I remember, she said, ‘I know you won’t be able to convince Marian. She’s too headstrong. But Bethany is my baby girl. I can’t go through losing another child.’ Did I do the right thing?” She sighed. “I don’t know why I’m asking _you_ about doing the right thing, of all people.”

That stung. She wasn’t wrong, but still. Aveline had a knack for factual tactlessness. “She’s a grieving mother. Leandra’s only doing what—I assume—a caring mother would do: worry about her children.” Isabela felt a pang of jealousy. Would that _her_ mother cared a tenth as much.

“I don’t like this,” Aveline repeated, gripping her sword hilt like she wanted to strangle it.

\------

“Isabela, can we talk?” Merrill looked pensive, which, Isabela supposed, was typical for her. Though today she seemed extra pensive.

Carefully brushing away the stacks of stray papers and setting her teacup down on Merrill’s worn, third- (or maybe fourth-) hand table, Isabela eased back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Of course, Kitten,” she said. “What did you want to talk about?” She hoped it wasn’t her. “Can we talk” often prefaced “You did something horrible,” and while she could blow off that conversation if it came from someone like Aveline, Merrill was another story. Isabela mentally flipped through previous interactions trying to see where she might have screwed up, a difficult task for a woman whose life was one screw-up after another.

Merrill stared into her tea as though she expected it to impart some great wisdom, chewing on the corner of her bottom lip. “I’m worried about Hawke,” she said, voice suddenly coming out in a rush of panicked air. “And Bethany. And Anders and Varric. They don’t know what’s down there! It’s all ancient and underground and everything.” She shook her head and lifted her chin to fix Isabela with those great big green eyes of hers, bright with anguish.

Teacups and plates rattled and a sheaf of notes fluttered onto the floor as Isabela slammed her hand down on the table. Merrill jumped in surprise. “What is it with everyone?” Isabela growled. “You, Aveline, even Hawke’s dog is worried! Varric can hit a bullseye from fifty paces. Bethany makes fire rain from the sky. We’ve watched Anders bring people back from the dead! Merrill, have you _seen_ how big Hawke’s sword is?”

Merrill’s fingers skittered over each other like dead leaves caught by a breeze. “Yes, but it’s been two weeks. What if something happened?”

“Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen. They’re fine! Hawke is fine!” There was that feeling again, like her ribcage had shrunk two sizes too small. She clenched her hands into fists to keep Merrill from seeing them shake.

\------

“I swear, Fenris, if you’re here to tell me you’re worried about Hawke, I will gut you.” Fenris never came to the Hanged Man; there could be no other reason. Not that it mattered. Isabela was already several shots past being three sheets to the wind, feeling meaner than a rabid hound. 

“Why would I tell you that? I’m here for a drink.” Fenris’s expression was, as always, unreadable, his tone flat as a board. It made Isabela even angrier. She wanted to dump her beer over his pretty little head. How’s that for a drink, she thought.

Isabela flopped forward, half-splayed on top of the bar. It was easier than trying to stay upright. “Because everyone and their mother can’t stop wringing their hands over this bloody expedition, so why not you, too?” she grumbled, so full of loathing she thought she might vomit. Or maybe that was the alcohol. The wooden bartop felt nice on her cheek.

Fenris took a measured sip and placed the cup back on the bar. He didn’t look at her. “It’s been three weeks and they’re not back. It’s obvious something happened. It’s normal to be concerned.”

He was wrong. It had been more than three weeks: 23 days, if one was counting. “I’m not concerned!” she slurred, wrapping her arms over her head, desperate to shut out the light, his voice, the world. Stupid Fenris. She should fight him. She should fight everyone. As soon as the room stopped spinning.

“Of course not.” Fenris tipped the bartender heavily and left, his drink barely touched.

\-----

Thirty-two days after the expedition started, Varric returned to the Hanged Man. Isabela was so happy to see him she almost didn’t catch that he looked as somber as a casket bearer, covered in dirt and grime, hair a disheveled, greasy mess. His coat, she noticed, was stained with dark red splotches.

She descended on him like a crow on carrion. He must be itching to share some new tales of adventure after a whole month. “Varric! Nice to see you in one piece. How was your little treasure hunt? Did you kill some bogeymen? Are you filthy rich?” Maybe she could even give him a hug... after he took a bath.

“No,” he said, not turning to look at her. He marched upstairs to his room. With each step, Isabela’s heart fell further. So it was true, then. Something _had_ gone wrong.

What could she do? She could catch up to Varric, threaten him until he spilled the horrible truth. She could find that sodding brother of his, string him up by his ankles like a mutineer, leave him to rot. She could go to Hawke’s house, barge in on a potentially grieving family, demand answers. She could burn this whole blighted city to the ground.

Or, she could go to her room and pretend none of this was happening. That worked for approximately five minutes before her traitorous mind grabbed her by the neck and dragged her into the morbid spiral of what-ifs. What did they find down there? A horde of darkspawn? A demon? Some kind of long-forgotten, deadly dwarven technology? Maybe it was more simple. Maybe the tunnels caved in on them, and only Varric made it out. Nature could be callous that way, a rebellion against those trying to carve her creations for their own uses. She imagined how it would feel to be crushed by a hundred tons of rock. With luck, it would be a massive enough collapse that the life would be extinguished from her body immediately. It would be less lucky to suffocate. Less lucky still to have her legs smashed, trapped, and die from thirst, alone a hundred miles underground, no one to hear her cries.

Who would be the one to tell Leandra? Varric would feel responsible for bringing the sisters with him on the expedition. He might take on the burden out of guilt. Aveline could do it, too. She would never forgive herself for not protecting them, for letting more people she cared for perish while she, by some cruel twist of fate, remained standing. Isabela could never do something like that. She could barely deal with her own grief, let alone someone else’s. No, she would run, into the Vinmark Mountains, into the Silent Plains, anywhere, it didn’t matter.

Lost in a mire of dark thoughts, Isabela flinched hard when the door to her room banged open. Hawke closed it behind her with slightly less force, then slid the lock into place. She was a mess, pale as a ghost, eyes red-rimmed and glazed, but she was alive, _alive_ , and Isabela leaped to her feet in an instant, not sure what to do, how to respond, but it didn’t matter, because Hawke was on her, mouths crashing together, too much tongue, too much teeth, but that didn’t matter, either. Hawke had been drinking something potent; Isabela could taste it, smell it wafting from her pores. 

It was tempting to give in to Hawke’s need—to give in to the hands under her shirt, the mouth roaming her neck, Hawke’s thigh pressed between her legs. But the tangible desperation in Hawke’s body, the tremble in her clawing fingers, clumsy with drink, set off warning bells in Isabela’s mind, loud enough to override nearly overwhelming physical desire.

“Hawke, wait. Wait,” she gasped, grasping Hawke by the wrists. 

Hawke froze, and the rational part of Isabela’s mind was grateful, even while her body felt betrayed. “Isn’t this what you want?” Hawke murmured in her ear, and it wasn’t a challenge; there was no fire, no ice, only fear and defeat.

With a sigh, Isabela cursed her soft heart. “It is. Believe me,” she said, letting go of Hawke and taking a step back. “But... not like this.” The broken look in Hawke’s eyes struck her like an arrow through the chest, knocking her back to the brothel in Antiva City, wild blue eyes mirrors to Dice’s deep brown. She felt the surf crashing into her knees and the thick taste of Llomerryn dark rum on the back of her tongue.

“Please, I don’t want to think... don’t want to remember,” Hawke said, voice hoarse, breaking. She hunched in on herself, as though an enormous weight was perched on her shoulders that she could no longer bear. 

Unsure of what else to do, remembering when her feet no longer touched the seabed, embraced by the riptide, drowning, Isabela took Hawke by the hand and led her to bed. “Come on. Sit down and tell me what happened.”

So Hawke told her everything, her voice cold, flat, and unbearably weary as she spoke of descending miles underground. The damp, stale air, the silence, the crushing omnipresence of a thousand million tons of rock overhead. Flowing lava and towering dwarven statues, faces stern and uncaring. Blue veins of lyrium bathing everything turquoise. Then, deeper, blue turning to red, whispering temptation in their ears. Roving bands of darkspawn, spiders, even a dragon, warnings against intrusion they should have heeded. Finally, the old thaig coming into view, buried under a thousand years of dust.

Bitter hatred coated her words as she explained how Bartrand betrayed them for a pretty bauble, trapping them in a place humans were never meant to walk. Attacked by the very rock itself, animated into monstrous forms.

Then, Hawke faltered. “I noticed Bethany had looked sick, but I thought it was just from being underground so long. None of us were feeling right,” she whispered, staring somewhere far away. “She was behind me the whole time. I thought I made sure none of the darkspawn could touch her, but…”

The growing realization crept over Isabela’s heart like brambles, twisting, stabbing. “No,” she breathed, as Hawke shattered, collapsing into raw, wrenching sobs. _You are a hurricane_ , came a voice inside her head, but she shoved it aside, pulled Hawke to her, absorbed her wretched shaking with her own body, memories of seawater flooding her mouth, her lungs. 

“She was so pale. You could see it, the sickness, under her skin,” Hawke forced out. “Her eyes were cloudy, like she was going blind. It all happened so fast.”

Isabela held Hawke in her arms, leaned against the wall, kept her head tilted up toward the ceiling to keep her own tears at bay. Senseless cruelty. That’s all it was. Senseless cruelty from an uncaring god. Everything good ends, and no one could say Bethany wasn’t a fountain of goodness, a breath of fresh air in a world filled with suffocating brutality. But a sunbeam can’t survive under the earth. Anders could talk about justice until he was blue in the face, but from where she was sitting, it was only a dream, the naive longings of a child.

Hawke explained how Anders knew of some Grey Wardens in the area. How she fought through waves of darkspawn until the piles of bodies around her were up to her waist. How she prayed the blood coating her head to toe wouldn’t find its way in and sicken her, too. How she had to beg the Wardens to take Bethany, with one foot in the grave, clinging to life.

“They told me it wasn’t a cure, but what other choice did I have? Was I supposed to shove my sword through her chest like Aveline had to do to Wesley?” Hawke took a deep breath, interrupted by another sob. “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Bethany’s a strong girl. I’ve no doubt she’ll make it through,” Isabela said, if only to convince herself; she refused to burden Hawke with her doubts. The tide receded, leaving her a hollowed out shell on the beach. Hawke’s head lay heavy in her lap, tears dampening her leg. 

Hawke brought her knees toward her chest, upper back curving into Isabela’s stomach. “I never should have brought her. Mother pleaded with me not to before we left—how can I go home and face her? I was supposed to protect her.” 

Neither woman spoke for a long time. Hawke’s harried breathing steadied, settled, rising and falling under Isabela’s arm, the stress melting away from her muscles as sleep took her. It was only when she was sure Hawke was sleeping that Isabela allowed her own grief to bubble to the surface, her own tears to fall. When the Qunari fired on her ship with their cannons, thunder and lightning erupting in a clear blue sky, did they understand the death they wanted would have been a mercy? That preventing her from ever caring again would have been the ultimate kindness? They could have their bloody book if it would relieve the ache worming its way between her ribs.

“What am I doing?” she said, words carried on the barest of exhales, a hair’s breadth from silence, for her own ears only. She had no answer. She was the wave, not the rock. The desert, not the oasis. Hawke was the strong one, the composed one, the eldest child to the core. Seeing her so upset, so unraveled, was disquieting, but knowing that _she_ was the one Hawke went to first, the one she trusted, was worse. Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers through Hawke’s hair. But what did it matter? Any day now, she would find the Tome, deliver it to Castillon, and wash her hands of Kirkwall and everyone in it. Simple. If she could get away, she wouldn’t have to see anything—or anyone—else destroyed in her wake.

When she woke, Hawke was gone.


	12. Act 1.5: "Never Look Away"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vienna Teng: "Never Look Away"  
>  _Some nights we open up the flood_  
>  _And some nights we are lost_  
>  _And some nights we're choking on the words_  
>  _But some we light on fire_
> 
> A series of vignettes, in chronological order, that takes place in the years between Acts 1 and 2.

Anyone familiar with Varric knew when he used their real name instead of his own fabricated nicknames, things were serious. So when he pulled her aside and said, “Isabela, let’s talk,” with not even a hint of his usual smile, she prepared for the worst.

“What is it?” she asked, unable to keep the acid out of her voice. It had been several weeks since their return from the expedition, and she still found it difficult to look at Varric without anger boiling up. Bethany was gone, maybe dead, and Hawke hadn’t turned up since her breakdown in Isabela’s room. She couldn’t help but feel that it was his fault, that he deserved some share of the blame for convincing the sisters to come on the expedition.

“Not here,” he said, looking around the bar. “Let’s go outside. Bring your throwing knives,” he added with a grim smile. He turned and started walking toward the front door, and Isabela noticed the crossbow on his back. What could he want? A duel? That didn’t seem his style, and besides, she would have a bolt in the chest before the knife could leave her hand.

He led her to an alley not far from the Hanged Man. If they were going to fight it out, she thought, it wasn’t a bad spot, though a bit narrow for ranged combat. But then she noticed the five wooden targets arranged at various heights on the back wall of the alley. 

Hefting the crossbow from his back, he placed the stock against his shoulder and peered down the sight. “I thought we could have a little fun, considering neither of us handles this ‘feelings’ shit very well.” He pulled the trigger, and there was a brief whistle followed by a thud as the bolt buried itself just to the left of the bullseye. “Damn,” he grumbled. “Must be distracted.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Isabela said, pulling a blade from her bracer. “They chose to go with you on that stupid expedition. Everyone got paid, didn’t they?” She set her feet. “So you got what you wanted,” she spat, and flicked her wrist, sending the knife end over end, landing right-of-center.

“You really think I wanted this?” Aim, fire. Slightly closer this time. “You think I wanted Bethany to get infected with the taint, or for my own brother to stab me in the back? I haven’t even seen Hawke, have you?”

Breathe, step, throw. Bullseye. “I did, the night you came back. She had a complete breakdown.” She neglected to mention any further details, for Hawke’s sake, and because, quite frankly, she didn’t want to think about Hawke desperately, drunkenly trying to erase the pain with sex or sobbing in her arms. But, of course, not wanting to think about things is the most surefire way to invite them in for tea.

Varric paused for a moment, lowered his crossbow, then shook his head and brought it back up to bear. “Shit. I can’t imagine that was easy for either of you.” Whistle, thud, bullseye on the lowest target.

“I can’t say I was particularly well-equipped to deal with something like that, no.” Given that she hadn’t seen Hawke since, perhaps she was even less well-equipped than she thought. The blade arced slightly to the right, cutting the bolt’s shaft in half, sinking into the wood to its left.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad she has someone she can trust.”

 _And if she knew what was good for her, she wouldn’t._ The knife hit the target hilt-first and clattered to the ground. “Well, fat lot of good that does her. I don’t even know why I care, really. None of this has anything to do with me.”

Varric chuckled. “Because you’re a softy, Rivaini. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Brave words to say to a woman who still has three knives on her.” Which was a lie, given that she just threw her last: dead center on the top-right target. But you never let your opponent know when you’re out of options. With a brief proud smile at her final shot, she dropped her hands to her sides, angling her body to almost, not quite, face Varric. “Look,” she said, rocking back and forth on her heels, “I know you didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I guess I just… ugh, I can’t say ‘I needed a target,’ can I? That would be too terrible a pun, even for me.”

“Thank you for refraining.” He squinted at the targets. “Well, would you look at that? Looks like a tie!”

“You were purposely aiming for the bricks with that last one.”

“Nah. Bianca just got a little excited, that’s all.” 

As Varric left to retrieve the bolts and knives, she had time to consider if it was truly worth being angry. He was just as close to the Hawke family as she was—probably even moreso, if she was being honest with herself. Varric was skilled at ducking behind a wry comment and a grin, but it didn’t take an expert duelist to spot the fresh heaviness to his steps or the flicker of remorse in his eyes after a joke. The guilt must be eating him alive. She wadded her bitterness up into a ball and threw it away.

“I’m sorry,” she said as they walked back to the Hanged Man. There was no need to elaborate; it was all-encompassing.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Me, too.” He passed her knives back, and there was a moment where he looked right through her, past the layers of bullshit and webs of lies she had painstakingly built, stripping her bare. It was distinctly uncomfortable. “If you need to talk about anything,” he said, approaching the stairs, “you know I’m right next door.” 

A sweet offer, but she’d rather cut her own tongue out, first.

* * *

“Letter for you,” said Corff as Isabela started to take her usual place at corner of the bar. She was never a woman given to habit or ritual, but even she had to admit there was something comforting about sitting in the same spot and seeing the same faces day after day. Even the gutter-ale and mystery meat had developed some strange sort of appeal. 

She flipped the letter over and checked the seal, praying it wasn’t the blindfolded skull of the Felicísima Armada. Castillon was just the sort of arrogant bastard who would announce her impending murder, if only to watch her try to squirm out of inevitable doom. But no, it was the Grey Warden griffon pressed into the wax.

Bethany.

Tearing open the envelope with such ferocity she ripped a corner off the letter, she scanned the parchment, not willing to believe it. Bethany was alive. She was okay. And, most baffling of all, she thought to send Isabela a letter. The world, Isabela decided, did not deserve Bethany.

  


  
Isabela,

I’m sending this letter to the Hanged Man, because I don’t know if you actually have a place to live, so I hope it gets to you. I am with the Wardens in Ferelden. I wish I could say that I’m happy to be in my homeland again. At least I’m alive, I suppose. But it’s hard to not think of what would have happened had I just stayed home like Mother wanted. Sometimes I don’t know if Marian made the right choice. This is not an easy path, not even close. The nightmares are the worst part. I don’t think I’ve had a proper night’s sleep since the Joining. 

I know if you were here, you would tease me and tell me it’s not that bad. You’ve got stories that could beat any of these Wardens’ tales. They’re all so grim. I wonder if that’s what’s happening to me, too? 

Please don’t tell Marian I sent you this. Mother should be getting a letter soon, too, so she’ll at least know I’m alive. I just can’t bring myself to write to my sister yet. I’m not ready to forgive her. Maybe that’s petty of me. I hope you understand. And I know you’ll scoff at it, but take care of Marian, would you? Even though she’s strong, she’s not invincible. She hates to let anyone see her hurting, but I know you can tell. 

I miss you. I miss everyone. Stay safe. 

Love,  
Bethany

  


Isabela sniffed hard and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She wished there was a way she could send a letter back, to tell Bethany that she would be the best damned Warden Thedas had ever seen, to tell those dour men to kiss her ass and appreciate the talented woman in their midst. Or maybe she could just send every dirty book in Kirkwall to Weisshaupt so Bethany had a whole library by the time she got there.

“Don’t tell Marian I sent you this.” She kept that promise, even when Hawke finally turned up to the Hanged Man after having been a stranger for the last three months. Even when she plopped down at a table and ordered her usual. Even when she acted like the expedition had never happened, like she had never stumbled into Isabela’s room, a wasted wreck, starving for comfort.

So Hawke didn’t want to talk about it. That was fine. Isabela didn’t really want to talk about it, either. She could add it to her long list of Things To Not Talk About, right next to “what exactly is this relic you’re looking for” and “why are the Qunari still occupying Kirkwall.” All to be swept under the rug, and as long as no one went peeking, she could stand there whistling, broom in hand.

They made small-talk. Hawke had practically been living in the Viscount’s Keep, working through a mountain of paperwork, paying an even greater mountain of gold, all to get the Amell estate back in her name. “I hope it can bring some joy to Mother after everything,” she said, and it was only then, in that brief pause between “after” and “everything,” that Isabela noticed the plum-colored half-moons under Hawke’s eyes and the exhaustion hanging on every word, dragging each of her movements down like a pocket full of stones.

Isabela wanted to ask, “Are you okay?” but found the words caught in her throat, too heavy to escape. Instead, she turned to humor, making some stupid joke about how more money always brought more problems, and Hawke could feel free to donate to her coffers if she found the burden too much to handle. It was easier than being honest. 

Hawke smiled, but her eyes stayed cold, twin icebergs. She finished her drink and got to her feet. “It’s good to see you,” she said, but it didn’t sound like it was at all. Then she left, likely back to the viscount’s to fight for something that meant nothing to her, some old, foreign glory.

It irritated Isabela, like a slap on a bad sunburn, and she didn’t know why.

* * *

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but I need—no, it would be nice if you could—oh, blast it, I would really appreciate it if you could… help me with something.” Aveline delivered this proposition as though eating glass would be a more pleasant experience.

Isabela crossed her arms, raised her eyebrows, and wondered what exactly could make Aveline so desperate. What could she possibly want from Isabela that she couldn’t get from Hawke, or her guards, or the bloody viscount himself? Even Varric would be a better option, if it was for something more clandestine. _He_ was subtle, at least.

“Oh, is—” she began to say, not even sarcastic for once, trying to maybe, just maybe, be a good person, but Aveline cut her off.

“No sass, please. This isn’t easy for me.” She placed her palms against the top of her desk, leaned into it like she was carrying the weight of the world.

Curiosity overwhelmed Isabela’s sense of self-preservation, a not uncommon occurrence. She smiled in a way she hoped was more friendly than predatory. “Well, you’re in luck. I’m feeling particularly generous today.”

“I need your help. With makeup. And do _not_ ask me why.”

Only Aveline could make something so mundane and stupid sound like life and death. “You want me… to put makeup… on you?” Honestly, she had no idea why Aveline would go to her for that. Isabela was no artist when it came to face-painting. Killing? Yes. Sailing? Yes. Sex? Oh yes. All things that involved a certain artistry. But she could barely remember to slap some kohl on during hazy, hungover mornings. Maybe something on her lips, if she was feeling especially ambitious. Thankfully, despite giving her skin every reason to rebel—too much sun, too much wind, and more living in one year than the average person did in a lifetime—it was holding up remarkably well.

“Yes. You have some extra, don’t you?” she said, and it almost, _almost_ sounded like pleading, if Aveline was the sort of person who pleaded. Which she was not.

“Aveline.” Isabela sighed, scooping up a quill from the desk and twirling it between her fingers. “I’m not sure you realize this, but you are very pale and very ginger, and I am very…” she gestured in a circular motion around her face, “...not. My makeup would look atrocious on you.” The very thought of Aveline wearing black around her eyes was a frightening one. Unless her goal was scaring her guards into submission. Then it might not be a bad idea.

“Oh.” Aveline dropped her eyes to the floor.

“Ugh, don’t look so pathetic. I’ll figure something out.” The chair legs scraped against the floor with a pained whine as she shoved it backwards and got to her feet. “Wait here—not like you have anywhere else to go.”

As Isabela wandered the Hightown market, she realized what a great folly it was to be a good person. How was she supposed to find makeup? For Aveline! And buy it! With her own coin! Clearly, she did not think this through. It was absurd.

Just _how_ absurd was something she could delve into while making her purchase. Nevermind the mystery reason behind _who_ Aveline was asking this favor of, the real question was _why?_ It was possible, Isabela supposed, that the guardswoman was looking to embrace some long-bereft femininity, just for the sake of it. But no, Aveline was not the sort of woman who did anything on a whim or flight of fancy. Aveline was the sort of woman who planned which foot each sock would go on in the morning. Aveline was the sort of woman who could not function without a goal. As Isabela exchanged her hard-won (or hard-stolen, depending on who you asked) silvers for powders she hoped would work, she realized Aveline had a crush. Some boy, probably in the guard, that got her knickers all in a twist. Some boy she wanted to impress. Why else would she go to Isabela for help?

She smiled. Isabela always loved a good opportunity for blackmail, especially when it involved the authorities.

“I don’t like the look of that smile,” Aveline said warily when Isabela returned, purchase in hand. “You aren’t going to poison me, are you?”

“Aveline, Aveline,” Isabela tutted. “You should be more trusting. If I poisoned you, who would keep me out of jail?”

“Yes, about that—”

“Not to worry! You are now in my extremely capable hands, so sit down.” Isabela took a seat of her own on the corner of Aveline’s desk, fanning her supplies out beside her.

Aveline dropped into her chair with the heavy sigh of a woman utterly resigned to her fate. “Do you have to sit on my desk?” she grumbled. “I don’t want to think about where that ass has been.”

“This desk is quite sturdy, actually. It could stand to get a few more asses on it, in my opinion.” Carefully, she added a few drops of oil to the powder and mixed it. It was a lighter shade of brown than she anticipated, but the nice Orlesian lady at the booth said it would work. If it didn’t, it was Aveline’s fault, anyway. “You, my dear, are not a short woman, and I need to have some elevation to see what I’m doing.” She flicked the tip of her brush through the concoction. “Enjoy the view,” she said with a grin, leaning over to gently grip Aveline’s chin between her thumb and forefinger.

“Your cleavage is nothing I, nor the rest of Thedas, haven’t seen before,” said Aveline, eyes never straying from Isabela’s forehead. “Be sure to explain what you’re doing so I can do it myself later.” 

She really was the antithesis of fun, wasn’t she? Aveline Vallen, enemy of pleasure, destroyer of good times. A proper screw would do wonders. Isabela decided that, if this stupid plan would accomplish that, it was for the good of all mankind. “I’m going to put this around your eyes, as close to the lashes as I can get it. It’s going to tickle, but I suggest you don’t flinch, because you really don’t want this brush going into your eyeball.”

Aveline’s eyes fluttered shut, and Isabela could feel her gritting her teeth in apprehension. It was strangely intimate, she thought, to be doing this, her pinky and ring fingers pressed against Aveline’s cheekbone, sweeping a line over her top lid. If there was any sexual tension between them, now would be the time for it to come out. Wait... maybe? No, no, not one bit. That was a relief.

“What is the purpose of what you’re doing right now?” Aveline asked, syllables mangled as she attempted to move her mouth as little possible.

Satisfied with the right eye, Isabela tilted Aveline’s face to the side and began working on the left. She decided it was time to play. “The purpose of this, Guard-Captain, is to make those lovely green eyes of yours pop... and to make whatever man you’re interested in _very_ uncomfortable in his pants.” Anticipating a reaction, she pulled the brush back just in time.

Aveline’s eyes snapped open. She looked ready to kill. “And what makes you think _that_ is what I’m after?” she said, voice a serrated edge.

Isabela admired her handiwork while only slightly fearing for her life; that right eye _did_ look nice. “There’s no shame in admitting it,” she retorted. “Whoever he is, it would do him some good to remember you’re a woman and not just a human-shaped battering ram. Now let me finish; you’ll look silly with only one eye done.”

“You must enjoy tormenting me,” Aveline muttered, but she acquiesced, closing her eyes and bringing her shoulders back down from the vicinity of her ears. “I don’t know why everything has to go straight to sex with you.”

“Because I like it. It’s not that deep.” And it wasn’t. Not really. Finishing the lower lashline, she leaned back and took stock. A bit uneven, but not bad, considering she had never done another woman’s makeup before. She should start charging for her services. “I’m going to do your lips now. Nothing too wild, so quit frowning. Your face will get stuck like that.” She wasn’t convinced it hadn’t already happened. “There,” she said, putting the last touches on. Isabela couldn’t resist getting one more jab in: “Those lips will look lovely wrapped around a nice, big—”

“Maker’s breath, Isabela, enough!” 

“Oh, you’re no fun at all. Here’s a mirror.” She passed over a small circular mirror from her bag and started cleaning up. When she glanced back out of the corner of her eye, Aveline was _preening._ Like a lantern-jawed, ginger peacock. Isabela had to bite her lip to keep from laughing and ruining a beautiful moment.

Aveline caught her looking, and just like that, the magic was gone, and she reverted to her usual scowl, albeit a slightly more delicate, pretty scowl. “This was… unexpected,” she said, and it was back to pulling teeth again, as though acknowledging Isabela actually being _helpful_ was physically painful. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Remember this moment the next time I’m arrested.”

* * *

It was easier the second time Hawke came to the Hanged Man. She kicked open the door, a massive grin lighting up her face and, by extension, the room, and announced to the entire bar that drinks were on her. Given that it was the middle of the afternoon and only half a dozen of the most persistent drunks were scattered about the place, it was not an insane proposition.

Hawke spotted Isabela and waved, then trotted over and, without a moment’s hesitation, planted a kiss on her cheek. That was… unexpected, but not unpleasant. Varric, seated next to her, tried to hide a smirk behind his cup’s rim and failed. She’d have to get him back for that later.

“What’s the occasion, Hawke?” he asked, though he didn’t have to, because Hawke looked ready to burst at the seams if she didn’t tell someone as soon as possible.

She barely waited for the words to come out of his mouth. “I got the estate!” she whooped, throwing her arms around the both of them, nearly pulling Varric off his stool.

So, Hawke had done the impossible. All the politicking, all the ass-kissing, all the money. And all for Leandra. Would Hawke’s mother even appreciate what her daughter went through, all the sacrifices she made? But, despite her bitterness, it was hard for Isabela to deny how happy Hawke looked for the first time in ages. 

“I’ll drink to that!” Isabela raised her tumbler in a toast. “To the Lady Hawke!” The cheer was echoed by Varric, Corff, Norah, and a regular in the back corner—what was his name? She could never remember. 

“So what’s the next move for the freshly elevated Hawke-Amell family?” Varric asked after they all drank. 

“First, scrubbing all the slaver blood out of the rugs. Then, dusting. Oh, so much dusting. Fortunately, we have next to no possessions, so the whole moving business doesn’t seem much of a challenge. Very considerate of my family to either die or join the Wardens so I don’t have to carry all of their shit.” 

That last line would’ve gone over much worse in a group where everyone didn’t insist on always masking pain with jokes.

Instead, they chuckled at the morbidity of it all, and Varric offered his assistance in getting the estate spruced up. Reluctantly, Isabela echoed his sentiments. It wasn’t right. Hawke was Lowtown’s daughter, same as her; maybe not in blood, but certainly in behavior. She wasn’t bashful about getting her hands dirty merc’ing or smuggling, swore enough to hold her own on a ship, drank ale and played cards. She mocked the nobility alongside Isabela, and now she was supposed to rub elbows with them? Hightown would never accept her. And even if they did, Hightown didn’t deserve her. 

“Promise me you’ll stop by to slum with us every once in a while,” Isabela said, and it was only half in jest.

Hawke placed her hand on Isabela’s thigh, fingertips dipping under the tops of her boots. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, and Isabela wanted to believe her, wanted to believe things wouldn’t change. _You are not your mother._

* * *

“Isabela, why are you wearing so much clothing… oh no.” Anders groaned and put his face into his hands as Isabela strolled into view, deck of cards in one hand, pint in the other, wearing every scrap of clothing she owned, plus a few more pieces she bought just for the occasion on the way to the bar. Merrill looked back and forth between him and Isabela with wide-eyed confusion, as though this was yet another inside joke between humans she didn’t grasp.

“Perhaps I’ve finally developed a sense of modesty?” She tried valiantly, but couldn’t maintain a straight face—especially when Anders let out a surprised bark of laughter at the absolute absurdity of the idea—and dissolved into a fit of giggles.

Even Merrill snickered, likely more to fit in than anything else. “Isabela,” she said, suddenly concerned. “Are you cold? Is that why you’re wearing all those clothes?”

Oh, Merrill. Truly too precious a being for this world. Almost too precious to corrupt. Almost. “No, Kitten, I’m not cold. We’re playing _Extra_ Wicked Grace today,” Isabela explained. Far from cold, she was finding it increasingly difficult to tell where her clothes ended and the sweat began. But it was worth it, just for the delicious look of utter despair on Anders’s face.

“What’s extra about it?” asked Merrill.

Anders had slid off the bench so far that half his body was now under the table, but it didn’t quite manage to hide his blush. “It’s strip Wicked Grace. When your hand loses, you have to take off a piece of clothing. The only way to win is to be the last one wearing anything.”

Merrill stopped to consider her clothes for a moment. “Oh, well, that sounds exciting, doesn’t it? I suppose I should’ve worn shoes today.”

The cards fluttered against Isabela’s palms as she shuffled them. It was her deck, obviously; she would never play with anyone else’s cards. They weren’t lucky.

Anders knew it, too. “I suppose we’ll be using that stacked deck of yours, then? Maker forbid you actually play fair.”

“Would you like to inspect the cards yourself, officer? They’re all accounted for.” And they were. All five suits, with five cards each, plus the trump card. Of course, that didn’t count all the extra top ranked cards she had stashed about her person. Setting her pint down, she took a seat and passed the cards to Anders for his appraisal.

He set the cards out in front of them, scrutinizing each side, holding them up to the light, before finally deciding they were safe and handing them back. “I don’t know why I play with you. I’m not even able to get drunk anymore, so it’s not like I can enjoy the humiliation with enough alcohol.”

“Oh, but _I_ can enjoy your humiliation, and that’s what really counts. And besides, you’ll play because you think you have a chance of seeing me naked.” She passed the deck to Merrill. “Look, I’ll even let Merrill deal the hands if it’ll make you feel better, you big baby.”

“Fine. But I still don’t trust you.”

The game went exactly as she had planned, thanks to palmed cards, sleight-of-hand tricks, and the usual deception. After ten rounds, she was down to pants and shirt, bare feet brushing the floor, with a pile of clothes next to her rivaling a small mountain. Merrill had given up both gloves and her belt and seemed rather disappointed it wasn’t more. And all Anders had left to his name was that absurd coat with the feathers, cinched up as much as it could to hide his indecency.

If she had done a proper job of it, the game would be ending right....

“You have _got_ to be kidding me!”

...now. Anders threw his cards in the air and dropped his head to the table, defeated. 

“Oh, what a shame,” Isabela said, voice sing-song. “Too bad for you, because I’m not wearing anything under these pants, you know. Now, give up the coat,” she demanded gleefully.

With a sigh, Anders stripped off his coat and placed it on the table reverentially, then immediately hid anything exciting from view with his hands. “A shame I had to lose,” he said, trying in vain to sound nonplussed. “I heard a rumor your nipples are pierced; I wanted to see if it was true.”

“What, you mean these?” She lifted her shirt up and flashed them both. Anders choked on his beer, Merrill simply let a quiet “ooh” slip, torn between Isabela’s display and Anders’s nudity next to her.

“That must have hurt, didn’t it?” Merrill asked, as Isabela lowered her shirt again. “I didn’t even think you could pierce those.”

“Kitten, you can pierce anything with a big enough needle.” She swept the abandoned cards into her hands. “Same time next week? You can stick with giving me all your money, if this was too thrilling for you.”

Anders whipped his coat back on. “I would rather go broke than do this again. Not that I have much coin to lose, anyway,” he muttered, glancing around the table. “Where are my pants?”

Isabela planted her chin on her fists and shrugged. “Oh, I surely have no idea,” she teased, as Merrill caught on and started giggling.

Minutes later, when Anders finally caught and tackled her to retrieved his pilfered pants, it was worth it, if only for the look on Merrill’s face and the way Anders’s blush went _all_ the way down.

* * *

When Isabela finally mustered up the courage to visit Hawke’s new home, it was almost ready for full-time habitation, almost indistinguishable from the other luxurious, gaudy, depthless Hightown manors. Great big empty houses for great big empty people. Whether Antiva City or Kirkwall or Denerim, it was all the same. She missed the sea.

The Amell estate (she refused to associate the name “Hawke” with it) felt even bigger and emptier than it ought to, bereft of much furniture, even more bereft of inhabitants. Did Leandra dream of this place in Lothering, Isabela wondered. Did she dream of filling its cavernous spaces with her husband and three children, maybe her children’s children, eventually? With warmth and laughter and love and all those things Isabela assumed a real family would have. Grief could fill a heart, chill it to the core, but never a home.

Leandra, fortunately, was not around. Probably out buying some doilies or having a massive self-portrait painted to hang over the fireplace. Isabela didn’t know why she thought so poorly of Hawke’s mother. They had barely exchanged ten words with one another, after all. Maybe Isabela was simply suspicious of mothers as a matter of habit. It was only logical, given her experience with them. And all Hawke ever spoke about was trying to please Leandra, to make up for some grave mistake Hawke had never actually made. Pouring herself into a bottomless void. 

Brutus unfolded himself from in front of the fire and bounded over to her, all ecstatic wiggles after not having seen her in months. She braced for impact, ready for the inevitable demand for bum scratches.

Hawke stepped out of a side room, looking both genuinely surprised and delighted at the sight of her—undoubtedly unexpected—visitor. “Well, hello there, stranger. I’d offer you some tea, but I’m afraid we don’t have a kettle. Or tea, come to think of it.” She cast a glance around the (ironically named, at this point) sitting room. “And I’d offer you a chair, but apparently we don’t have any of those yet, either.”

Isabela had already made herself comfortable on the floor, Brutus sitting between her outstretched legs while she ran her fingers down his back. “No worries. This rug is quite comfortable. Isn’t that right, baby Brutus?”

“You two have certainly become good friends, haven’t you? Mother told me you walked him every day while I was on the expedition?” she asked, trademark smirk twisting the left side of her lips, as though she couldn’t believe Isabela would do such a thing. And, to her credit, Isabela couldn’t really believe it, either.

“Someone had to. Besides, I was bored.” With a heavy thud, Brutus flopped over onto his side, expectation of further scratches a given. She obliged him, the spoiled shit. Isabela never would have considered herself a dog person before. The dogs she grew up with were all street dogs, feral beasts that would sooner bite the hand that fed them than anything else. No one she knew of in Rivain kept dogs in the house. You’d sooner shit on the floor. But, she supposed she could make an exception for Brutus. He was better behaved than some adults she let into her home, after all.

Hawke eased down opposite of Isabela, next to Brutus’s head. He seemed extremely pleased about this situation, smacking his diminutive tail against the floor. “You were bored?” Hawke snorted. “You couldn’t go save orphans, collect exotic flowers, and kill people for money without me, could you? That’s so sweet.” 

“If you think I was bored then, you have no idea how bored I am now that you’re so busy getting gilded underclothes tailored, or whatever it is you Hightown people do.” Running off into the wilderness to collect exotic flowers was almost starting to sound appealing.

“Oh, you have no idea. Getting my delicates gilded would be far preferable to dealing with the bloody suitors Mother keeps digging up. She’s apparently decided I’m in need of a husband ‘worthy of my station,’” she droned, dripping with sarcasm.

Isabela averted her eyes away from Hawke and toward the fire. That Hawke. Full of surprises. “I see,” she managed to say, keeping her tone light, casual. “Well, you know how I feel about husbands. Particularly the noble variety.” 

So. That explained things. Hawke did not sleep with women. Not unusual at all. Lots of girls were fine with kissing, maybe some touching, but anything further than that scared them off. It wasn’t as disappointing as she thought it would be. Maybe because it didn’t mean anything was wrong with her, specifically. She just didn’t have the proper equipment. No big loss. Onto the next.

“—and did you know Seneschal Bran has a son? I wish I didn’t. The man is a complete and total—Isabela? Are you there? May I speak to Isabela, please?”

She pulled herself away from the fire and back to Hawke, who, fortunately, looked more amused than annoyed. “He’s a pig, isn’t he? I could’ve told you that.” She had never met the seneschal’s son, nor even seen him, but she could guess. They were all the same.

“He is,” Hawke sighed. “I’m glad Mother seems in better spirits, but it’s a little disturbing how quickly she’s remembered the ins and outs of being high class. It feels like I’m… I don’t know.”

“Like you’re being paraded around like a prized show horse?”

“Yes, exactly.” Hawke absently rubbed circles along the bases of Brutus’s ears, her lips drawn into a tight line, inside corners of her eyebrows slightly raised, worried. “I’m afraid to ask how you know what that’s like.” She didn’t have to ask; she could put two and two together. Hawke wasn’t dumb.

“Just be grateful you’re not being pranced around the ring for money,” Isabela said, and it was more sadness than bitterness or anger bringing her voice down low, drawing her gaze back to the flames.

“Isabela. You know I don’t like being here, right? I know I’ll never belong in Hightown.” 

Isabela wasn’t sure which of them Hawke was trying to convince more. “I know that,” she lied. “The real question is, does your mother?”

There it was. Anger, brief but unmistakable, and Isabela might have felt bad for provoking it if she was a better person. “I’m not going to let my mother force me into being something I’m not,” Hawke said hotly, and really, it wasn’t her fault she didn’t know the kind of history she was up against. It was all twisted up, Hari and Leandra, women from opposite ends of the world, different cultures, different languages, and yet, inextricable in Isabela’s mind.

_Just take her._

With one last pat on Brutus’s flank, Isabela rose to her feet. “Glad to hear it. I’ll buy you a kettle and some tea for next time,” she said. She wasn’t sure there would be a next time.

* * *

Fenris’s misappropriated mansion was still, to put it lightly, a disaster. If he wanted to make it clear he cared nothing for the place beyond a desire to not sleep on the street, he had done a very good job, thought Isabela as she rescued a stray book from under a leaky pipe. She half expected to see a rat dart out from under one of the many upturned chairs. Did the man not sit anywhere? Maybe he just endlessly stalked the estate like a ghost, with occasional pauses for brooding.

“You know, if you picked up all these books and gave them a home on a shelf, you would have a decent library.” She flipped the slightly damp book over and read the title. _Altitudinal Distribution of Imperium Vegetation._ Okay, maybe that one could find a new home.

“If I put them on a shelf, I wouldn’t be able to use them as kindling,” Fenris replied, scooping one from the corner and tossing it into the fireplace. “What good is a library when you don’t know how to read? You wouldn’t tailor a fancy pair of gloves for a handless man, would you?”

“You could learn. I didn’t know how to read until I was nearly an adult.” One of the few good things Luis did for her. It was tricky, at first, but she figured it out with time and developed into a voracious reader soon after. It became part of her arsenal against him; the few times she was allowed to be present when foreign dignitaries came to the estate, she made Luis look a fool, correcting his woefully inadequate knowledge of history and politics. One of her fondest memories from her year in captivity was when she managed to impress an Orlesian merchant by rattling off juicy court intrigues and their potential effects on business. “Ha! Perhaps I should have hired your wife, instead,” the merchant had crowed. Luis, utterly emasculated, forbade her from talking with visitors after that. Worth it.

“Sadly, I do not have a wealthy Antivan husband to grant me literacy,” Fenris said with a humorless smile.

Isabela rolled her eyes and placed another book on the shelf. “Smartass. I could teach you, if you wanted.”

Fenris stopped poking at the fire. “Why?”

“Why what? Why would you want to learn, or why would I want to teach you?”

That strange smile again. “Yes.”

She sighed. “You’re insufferable. You should want to learn because learning to read unlocks a massive amount of potential knowledge. And knowledge brings power. And nothing is more infuriating to one’s captor than a knowledgeable captive, trust me on that.” A pause as she ran her fingertips over the raised, gilded title of another book: _The Exalted Marches, Volume 4 - The Story of Valhail I._ “And as for why I would want to teach you… why not? I’m here, you’re here; I have nothing else to do. Can’t imagine your schedule’s packed, either.”

“All right, then. Try me. But I doubt you’ll find anything worth reading in Danarius’s collection.” So it was to be a challenge, then? Fenris certainly knew how to push her buttons.

“I could run back home and grab my copy of _Seduced by Fen’Harel_ , if that would be more to your liking. Or, ooh, perhaps _A Templar’s Temptation?_ That’s a popular one. A little heavy on the purple prose, if you ask me, but not bad.”

Fenris strode over to the bookshelf she had been stocking. Peering at the collection of books, he asked, “Is there anything about Seheron?”

Isabela tilted her head to the side and scanned the titles. “I thought I saw something… ah, yes! Here it is.” She pulled a slim, leather-bound tome from the top shelf. “ _The Griffons of Seheron._ I thought that one looked interesting. Do you want to give it a go? You can sit on my lap while I teach you.”

“I’ll pass on the lap-sitting.” He grabbed a stray chair from behind a bed and propped it up next to its twin in front of the fireplace.

Taking a seat beside him, she cracked the book open and inhaled, breathing in that delicious, slightly musty old book scent, keenly aware of Fenris’s amused expression. “Smell that? That’s the smell of education. All right, so this symbol here…”

* * *

Isabela was a woman with needs. Very particular needs. Though maybe “needing to be fucked senseless” was not _that_ particular, if the crowd inside the Blooming Rose was any indication. She hadn’t visited as often as she planned to when she first floundered into Kirkwall. Not that she hadn’t found any company to keep her bed warm, but it tended to be in the Hanged Man’s spartan rooms, not at the Rose, which at least pretended to be lavish.

Still, she liked to visit, even when she wasn’t planning on perusing the wares, simply to check in with everyone, make sure they were being taken care of. Long after her body was food for fishes, they would say “That Captain Isabela, she was hard as stone and mean as a wyvern, but she had a soft spot for whores.”

It was also worth a trip just to catch up on the latest gossip, because, really, no one gossips like prostitutes.

They all knew her by name. For whatever reason, female patrons were a rarity and thus garnered extra attention by their mere presence. Sabina, Cora, Katriela—they all flocked to her as soon as she walked in, like seagulls to a dropped scrap of food on the beach. 

“Isabela!” said Sabina, voice like a knife scraping against a plate. “It’s been so long, we thought you must’ve been halfway to Llomerryn by now. You find some other brothel to spend your nights at?”

“And miss out on the exclusive high class entertainment of the Rose? Nay, you lot know I’m a loyal customer.” She laughed as Katriela swatted her on the arm. 

“I’m free tonight,” Cora said. “And so is Osric. Though,” she paused to look thoughtful, finger to her chin, “he might want to pass on you. Last time you were with him, I swear he couldn’t sit without wincing for a week after.” The other girls nodded in agreement, stifling giggles.

Isabela pouted. “Hey, it’s not my fault he wanted to try pegging.” Poor Osric. She admired his taste for adventure, but he often bit off more than he could chew. Or had her bite, more accurately.

“You haven’t been here in a while, so you must not have met Nina yet, have you?” Katriela said. “She’s booked solid tonight, but if you’re ever feeling homesick, we’ll write your name down for her.”

“A Rivaini?” questioned Isabela. It wasn’t completely unheard of for another of her countrymen to be this far south, but still surprising. While the intended sentiment was a sweet one, Isabela wasn’t particularly attached to Rivain, at least in this arena. Sex was sex, and dirty talk didn’t sound any dirtier in her native language.

“Yeah. She’s a popular one.” Katriela winked and nudged Isabela with her elbow. “You’re prettier though, don’t worry.”

Viveka came over to ruin their revelry, ever the human storm cloud. “All right ladies, I realize we all love Isabela, but you don’t get paid to talk to her, so scat. Katriela, your man is here. And Sabina, I swear, if you don’t keep your brat from harassing our patrons, you can go turn tricks on the streets. Shoo, shoo!” She waved her hands like she was trying to scare off a stray pack of dogs sniffing around her doorstep. With a chorus of sighs and grumbles, the girls dispersed, one of them giving Isabela a smack on the ass as she departed.

“Now, dear, who’ll you have? The boys are on special tonight, and I think Osric’s back is all healed by now, if you wanted to give him a go.” Viveka had the prosaic look of a woman who had seen enough in her life to never be impressed or surprised again. 

“I’ll have to think about it. I’m not sure I’m up for all the whipping required to get that man hard.”

“That’s fine, but you better order a drink, then. Madam Lusine won’t have you loitering about and distracting everyone.”

If Aveline worked in a brothel, mused Isabela, she would be just like Viveka. Now there was a thought. Relenting under her withering glare, she retreated to the bar and paid Quintus for her wine.

She didn’t know why the Rose kept their guestbook out in the open where anyone could see it. She supposed it was good advertisement; if a prospective customer saw the kind of business Adriano was pulling in day after day, maybe they could determine he was worth the price (he wasn’t). It also provided an interesting glimpse into the customers, themselves—preferences, kinks, fetishes. A patron that visited a particular whore every time might be falling in love despite themselves. Or, a much rarer situation, the patron had such great chemistry that the worker would keep their schedule clear for them and them alone. 

The book used first names and last initial only, “to protect the privacy of their customers,” according to Madam Lusine. A hollow gesture, given all the loose lips endemic to a brothel. Isabela sneaked a surreptitious glance at the guestbook; all those names, penned in Viveka’s flawless, erudite handwriting, were too juicy not to peek at. There was that templar recruit, Keran D., spending what little coin the Order gave him every other night, by the looks of it. Gamlen A., of course, with Cynthia, his perennial favorite. And there, towards the bottom of the page—

_Marian H. --- Nina_

And a few spots above that:

_Marian H. --- Nina_

Abandoning any semblance of secrecy, heart pounding, Isabela dug in deeper. She flipped back a page in the book, then to the last week, the last month, and beyond:

_Marian H. --- Nina_

_Marian H. --- Reyna_

_Marian H. --- Korinne_

_Marian H. --- Sarah_

_Marian H. --- Faith_

_Marian H. --- Katriela_

_Marian H. --- Valeria_

All women.

Oh.

“Not sure which one to pick?” asked Quintus. “You know you can hire more than one at a time, don’t you?”

Isabela set her glass onto the bar, “ _Marian H._ ” seared into her brain with a white-hot brand. “You know, I think I’ve changed my mind,” she said, leaving her drink half-finished and slipping out the back door to avoid any more attention.

* * *

Isabela never subscribed to the concept of particular varieties of drunk. The happy drunk, the flirty drunk, the sad drunk, the angry drunk. They all described her at one point or another. Depending on the events of the evening, she could cycle through each one multiple times. Alcohol didn’t change her, merely amplified what she was already feeling before the drink touched her lips.That night, she was an angry drunk. 

“Oy, what do you think of that new girl what just came into all that money? Sounds like she’s taken over half of Hightown already,” said the scruffy man in the corner to his mates, loud and unabashed at five pints in. “Hawke’s the name, innit?”

Isabela’s ears perked up, and she swiveled her head around to look. She didn’t recognize the speaker, but she knew the man next to him. Julius. Coterie boys, a half dozen or so, with Julius as their leader, clustered around the Hanged Man’s back table—obnoxious enough in their revelry that even the other patrons were starting to shoot scathing glares in their direction.

“Not bad, for a dog-lord,” Julius said. “A solid seven out of ten. I’d fuck her. Maybe her mother, too, if I was drunk enough.” He guffawed, a sound reminiscent of a dying horse. Isabela’s fingers twitched.

“Ah yeah, but I heard a rumor says the girl ain’t into men. Too bad,” said Scruffy, clapping Julius on the back, all mock-sympathy for his boss’s unwanted loins.

Julius staggered to his feet and planted one boot on the bench. “Ha! Only because she hasn’t had a taste of _this,_ yet!” he roared, grabbing his crotch. His mates hooted and hollered along with him, one declaring Julius ought to be a good boss and let them all have a turn.

Later, when she was sitting in jail, Isabela would think of a hundred witty comebacks, a hundred ways she could have diffused the situation peacefully. In that moment, however, all she could think to do was march over and crack Julius across the jaw with her fist.

Six against one weren’t the best odds, but she was ready to gamble when another four came at her from around the corner. Well, let no one say she didn’t go down swinging. 

The tavern exploded. Someone grabbed her around the waist; she stomped on his foot and he let go with a howl of pain. A whoosh of air as a punch just missed her face. Someone else, maybe a regular, throwing her would-be assailant to the ground. Her knee landed with satisfying force between a man’s legs. He dropped like a stone. A sharp pain and white stars, shake it off; he missed her temple. Someone screaming for them to take it outside.

A hand pawing at her collar. Grab his wrist with both hands, elbows up, pull, feel his shoulder pop out as he ragdolled to his knees. Two more people hauling her out the door. Julius came at her, screaming murder, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. Martin, bless his soul, tackled him, the two of them crashing into a merchant’s stall, sending bolts of silk flying. She was taken to the ground by another of the Coterie boys, his weight crushing the air from her lungs. He went for a choke, leaning in to apply more pressure; she ripped a chunk out of his ear with her teeth and rammed her thumbs into his eye sockets. Another pair swinging haymakers at each other tumbled over her, a boot catching her in the ribs. She gasped in pain, spat out blood.

“Guards are coming!” someone yelled, and armored hands grabbed her, forced her arms behind her back, and a knee pressed between her shoulders. All her squirming and blistering protestations earned her was a laugh and a pair of handcuffs clasped around her wrists. 

“Can’t wait to see what the Guard-Captain does with you,” came a mirthful voice above her, and she was yanked to her feet and shoved all the way to the barracks.

She didn’t see hide nor ginger hair of Aveline for two weeks while locked in the brig. At least, she assumed it was two weeks; keeping track of time becomes a challenge when trapped in a stone box with little more than a pot to piss in. Fortunately, it wasn’t her first rodeo. By her estimation, she was up to seven months and—no, she recalculated, _eight_ months and five days total in various jails around Thedas. Not bad. Usually she had company, though; other women, similarly rough around the edges, with a million stories to tell. Even got a tattoo out of it once. This was her first time in solitary confinement.

When Aveline finally stopped by and fixed Isabela with her trademark scowl, it was a welcome relief from counting backwards from one thousand by threes and naming every port city she could think of from south to north. Isabela imagined she must have looked a nightmare, her only excuse for bathing coming from the occasional guard throwing a bucket of freezing water on her.

“Oh, Aveline, how nice to see you,” she croaked, voice rusty from disuse. “Are you here to let me out, or just lecture me?”

“Fourteen counts of disturbing the peace, ten counts of assault, inciting a riot, destruction of public property, resisting arrest… Isabela, _why_?" Aveline’s stare was harsh and unwavering and so very, very annoying.

Isabela stretched her legs out from where she was sitting; the cell was so small her toes nearly brushed the opposite wall. “So, the lecture, then? Great.”

Leaving one hand resting on her sword’s pommel, Aveline gripped the cell bars with the other. “I had to dispatch ten guards to break up the brawl you started. Over twenty people fighting in the streets. Uncountable damage done to storefronts in Lowtown. Please tell me you had a good reason for doing this.”

Isabela made an attempt to look as innocent and helpless as possible. She doubted it was very convincing. “The man insulted my boots, Aveline. I couldn’t let that stand.”

“He insulted your boots? You’re kidding me.” Aveline made to drop her forehead against the bars, but caught sight of the layer of grime covering them and held back. 

“They’re Antivan leather!” She could almost make out the vein that popped out of Aveline’s forehead when she was irritated.

“I should leave you to rot in there,” Aveline threatened. “I’ve already bent the rules for you too many times.”

Isabela dared to call her bluff: “But you’ll bend them again, because we’re friends.”

“We’re _not_ friends,” Aveline shot back with a sneer. “We just have a good friend in common, for reasons I will never understand.”

“Yes, and that ‘good friend’ wouldn’t like to know how I’ve been treated the last two weeks.” She hoped, anyway.

Heaving a sigh, Aveline fidgeted with the ring of keys on her belt. “It was supposed to teach you a lesson. But I suppose you don’t learn anything unless you want to, do you?” she said, with a twitchiness around the corners of her lips that approached a smile.

“Why do you think I never went to school?” Spending her entire childhood as a wandering vagrant might have been the more obvious answer, but Aveline wasn’t off the mark completely.

And, like a candle blown out, the suggestion of a smile was gone, green eyes hard again. “Isabela. You can’t do this anymore. No more fights. I mean it. I don’t care what piece of your clothing someone insults. Save your fists for someone who really deserves it.”

 _And if you knew what he said, you would know he deserved it, and more._ Isabela stared at a crack in the floor, knowing she was backed into a corner. She could lie, of course, but Aveline’s already-limited goodwill was clearly running dangerously short. And, if the persistent stitch in her side and aching, swollen knuckles were any indication, it might be in her best interest to cool off on the duels for a while. Hawke would have to defend her own honor.

“All right,” she agreed, “No more fights. In public, anyway.” The key was already turning in the lock as she got to her feet.

“I’d like to trust you,” said Aveline, features softening once more. “I don’t know what Hawke sees in you, but it must be something worthwhile.”

“I don’t know what she sees in me, either,” Isabela muttered, slipping past the guard captain.

“Your possessions are being held at the front. And go take a bath! You smell repulsive,” Aveline called after her, the cell door closing with a creaking whine.

* * *

It was stupid. It was stupid to feel like Hawke was slipping through her fingers. It was stupid to feel like _anyone_ was worth holding onto. And yet, and yet, and yet. Here she was, seated at the sagging table in her room, candlelight illuminating parchment and quill, writing a letter (a letter!) to Hawke, because somehow, for whatever idiotic reason, she couldn’t bring herself to visit that horrible fucking empty estate again and talk.

Isabela heard the political thunder rumbling in the distance, even all the way in Lowtown. The Qunari weren’t leaving, and they were starting to get restless. No one knew what they were waiting for. They said, and the viscount echoed, they needed a second ship from Par Vollen. But she knew. They wanted that bloody Tome of Koslun. The key to her survival. And it was still a myth, despite all the songs of little birds over the years, songs she had followed to dead ends—sometimes dead people—each and every time. Still no word from Castillon, but she knew the clock was ticking. The Armada didn’t forget, and they didn’t forgive.

She was sailing in the shallows, dodging the reef, and she could only carry on for so long before her luck ran out and the rocks ripped a hole right through her hull and she sunk, sunk to the depths of an unforgiving ocean.

But that could wait a little longer. Right now, she wanted… what _did_ she want? Her friend back? Protection, another blade against her pursuers? A potential lover? 

  
_Hawke,_

_There’s a door leading to the roof in the Merchant’s Guild. It will be unlocked tonight. Meet me on the roof._

  


She signed her first initial only, confident Hawke could identify the sender. Then she waited for the ink to set, rolled the parchment up, and secured it with a blue ribbon. That weird dwarf that fancied himself Hawke’s servant liked to visit the market in the afternoon. He could get the letter to Hawke with enough persuasion. And if she didn’t show… at least the view would be nice.

_One week ago…_

“I don’t suppose you know a place in Hightown with a nice view where a lady could speak to another lady in private?” Isabela asked.

Varric chuckled. “I _know_ this can’t be for you, because you’re the farthest thing from a lady I’ve ever seen a woman be.” He paced the length of his room, looking up, then down, as though he was squinting right through the walls, all the way up the stairs to Hightown, with its fluttering banners and polished marble. “Let’s see… you could use—wait, no, they tore that down last year. Or—nah, that view is terrible.” Then he stopped and snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! You know where the Merchant’s Guild is, right? If you can sneak in there, all the way up on the top floor, past the offices...” He rummaged through the chest at the foot of his bed, emerging with a ring of keys. “I think I’ve still got the key for it on here.” There was a slight metallic clicking as he flipped through each of the keys. “Aha! Can’t believe I kept this.” Finagling the key off the ring, he passed it to Isabela. “Anyway, if you go past the offices, there’s a hatch up to the roof. This key will unlock that. It will also lock it from the other side, so no one will bother you and your lady.”

That would work. “Thanks, Varric. I owe you a drink. But why can’t I just pick the lock?” 

“There’s not enough ale in Kirkwall for all the drinks you owe me. And that lock is a pain in the ass. If you waste time trying to pry it open, you’ll get caught. Save your pride and use the key.” Varric closed the trunk. “Let me know what Hawke thinks of the roof,” he said with a smile.

“Consider that drink revoked.”

_Present day…_

Getting up to the roof of the Merchant’s Guild was trivial. The Guild, being a dwarven institution, was of dwarven-style architecture: narrow hallways, a lack of windows, lots of places to hide. And Varric’s key worked like a charm.

A cool, sweet breeze struck her as she climbed out onto the roof. That was the thing about Kirkwall: the richer you were, the higher up in the sky you could go, and the farther above the ground you could get, the better your lungs felt, to the point where the Undercity contained a constant backdrop of coughing and wheezing. Up here, the air was pure, quiet. Up here, she was better than all of them, untouchable.

It was a rare clear night, frail wisps of clouds doing little to stifle the stars and the moon. Hightown stretched out below her, cobblestones bathed in torchlight, the occasional guard patrolling the courtyards, but no other souls in sight. Though the stone parapets were a mess of bird shit, the roof itself, flat gray stone, was surprisingly clean. 

She found a spot near the hatch to sit, the bottle of Seleny Red her only company. It was an incredible feat, she thought, to not have so much as opened the bottle since it found its way into her possession at the de Launcet’s ball. But it was meant to be shared, and shared with one person in particular.

And then what? They would drink and dance around the obvious and obfuscate with humor. And Hawke would be oblivious and Isabela would stew in conflicted bitterness. Just like always. And nothing would change.

Just as Isabela was strongly considering breaking open the bottle and downing it all herself, the roof hatch opened and Hawke climbed out.

“You know,” she said, closing the hatch behind her, “When I asked Bodahn who gave him the letter, he said ‘a very well-proportioned woman with boots up to my eyeballs.’ Can’t imagine who else it could’ve been.”

“‘Well-proportioned,’ hm? That’s a new one.” Not entirely unflattering a descriptor, she thought.

Hawke stayed standing, taking in the view, the night sky cloaking her in dark blue trimmed with silver. She seemed at ease, though perhaps a touch suspicious. “So, what’s the occasion?” she asked.

Isabela hoisted the wine aloft and patted the stone next to her. “I thought we could finally share this bottle of Antivan wine.”

“The one you stole from the ball? You kept that?” Hawke’s face broke into a full smile. Grabbing the bottle and taking the offered seat, she peered at the label in the dim light. “Sure enough. I can’t believe you didn’t drink this.”

“Oh, I wanted to. But I said I would share it, and I keep… well, I keep some of my promises.” She waited for Hawke to pick the wax off the top, then used the smallest knife in her arsenal (“Where do you even _keep_ all these things?” Hawke asked, incredulous) to work the cork free. The smell hit her first, taking her back to parquet dancefloors, lilac perfume, Hawke in that damned corset. She chose to let those memories swirl around, a welcome distraction, instead of going further back, back to the land the wine was made in and the crueler memories that lay there.

A sip straight from the bottle. Heavy, piquant, a backdrop of sweetness, but not overly so. She could detect the blackcurrent, maybe, but not the cedar. Then again, she had never licked a tree to find out.

She passed the bottle to Hawke, who sniffed it, raised an eyebrow, took a drink. “That’s intense,” she said, handing the wine back.

“Do you like it, though?” For some silly reason, it was important to Isabela that she did.

“Definitely. I might have to send you back to the de Launcet’s to procure another bottle.”

“I think you have the means to buy it yourself by now.”

“I do, but I bet it tastes better when it’s stolen.” Hawke put her hands out behind her and leaned back, tilting her head up to the stars; Isabela pretended not to notice their hips touching. “You picked a gorgeous night to come out here. I don’t think the sky has been this clear in months.” The bottle made its way back into her hands, and she tipped it to her lips. “You can’t usually see the stars this well.”

It was true. Kirkwall was a magnet for gloom in all its forms. “I can’t remember the last time I was able to pick out the Maiden,” Isabela admitted, nodding toward the south.

“Sailors use the stars for navigation, don’t they? Father taught me a few constellations, but I’ll be damned if I can ever remember them.”

“This one is easy, look,” Isabela said, wrapping her arm around Hawke’s shoulders and bringing her closer. She pointed with her other hand into the heavens. “Follow where I’m pointing. You see that bright star there? With the second bright one right below it?” She waited for Hawke’s mumble of affirmation. “The top one is her head, and the bottom one is her navel.”

“And the two on either side?”

“Well, the original astronomers were a bunch of lonely old men, so those, my dear Hawke, are her tits.”

Hawke laughed, a short burst of color, her hair tickling Isabela’s ear. “You’re joking!”

“I am not! It’s the way sailors know how to get to Ferelden: ‘Follow the Maiden’s tits.’”

Hawke made no effort to increase the distance between them, so Isabela kept her arm around Hawke’s shoulders as they languidly passed the wine back and forth. It was comfortable, this situation she found herself in, more comfortable than she had felt with Hawke in the entire last year, maybe longer. 

There was a touch of hesitation then, a slight tension in Hawke’s muscles, as though she was working up the nerve to act. “Isabela,” she said, voice a bit tight. “I never apologized for what happened after the expedition.” Before Isabela could respond, to tell her she had nothing to apologize for, Hawke barrelled on: “I shouldn’t have dumped all my emotions onto you like I did. I was hurting, but the way I dealt with it was wrong. It was unfair to you, and I’m sorry.”

“You went through an absolute nightmare; I don’t think anyone has the right to judge how a person copes with something like that.” Isabela certainly couldn’t, being the queen of poor coping skills. “I’m just confused why you went to me, and not, I don’t know… Aveline?”

Hawke laughed at the suggestion. “Aveline can’t hear a problem without wanting to fix it. But I didn’t want a solution; what happened to Bethany isn’t something anyone can fix. I think I just needed someone to listen.” 

It still seemed insane. People didn’t tend to want “listening” from Isabela, if they trusted her to offer anything at all. But, she supposed, most people were not like Hawke. “I’m not sure I’m emotionally equipped to handle the heavy stuff, but I can be a good listener when I want to be, contrary to popular belief.”

“You’re not as bad as you think,” Hawke said, leaning closer, curving her body into Isabela’s.

How wonderful it must be to be so naive, Isabela thought. “Oh, I assure you, I am a complete mess.”

“You keep saying that, but I’m not sure I buy it.”

“You should.” Uncomfortable, Isabela removed her arm from Hawke’s shoulders, an unintentional complement to the coolness of her words. Grabbing the wine bottle, she took another drink, if only to keep from talking.

The conversation paused as they drank in silence. Isabela could feel Hawke studying her, eyes boring into the side of her head, but she ignored it. Let Hawke try to analyze, dig for a deeper meaning when there wasn’t one. There was no water in this ground for her to build a well.

Then Hawke asked a dangerous question: “Have you been in love before?”

Isabela, despite herself, answered honestly. “Yes. Many years ago, I was in love with a wonderful man from Starkhaven who was all one could ever hope for in a partner. He treated me like a queen.” She couldn’t say his name, wouldn’t sully it by letting it pass her lips. He would remain the nebulous Starkhaven man; with luck, it would force him to fade from memory. If only it were that easy.

“What happened?”

“He asked me to be his wife. I couldn’t handle the commitment.” Wine and roses under the olive tree; she still remembered it so clearly. That boyish hope on his face, gazing up at her from on one knee, holding out that tiny, plain ring. He must have scrimped and saved for months to buy it.

“So you ran?”

“Yes, but first I fucked his brother.” She chose the vulgarity on purpose, a brutal cut with an aim to shock, a warning signal, loud and clear, like a rattlesnake’s tail.

She thought Hawke would at least ask why. Maybe be appalled, or disgusted, or angry, or worse, pitying. Instead, she said quietly, almost like she was talking to herself: “Self-sabotage.”

“No. You can’t sabotage something that’s already ruined. The only thing I sabotaged was him.” He was willing to wait until she was ready, but she never would be; she couldn’t ask that of him. She sighed. “Love is a destructive force, and I know better than to get involved with it again.”

Hawke took a sip and shook her head. “I disagree. I think love is a positive thing. It makes a person stronger than they would be alone.”

It was admirable, Isabela thought, to have such faith in love. Admirable, and foolish. “Then it’s my turn to ask: have you been in love before?”

“I was. With a woman named Brianne, from Lothering.”

“And what happened to her?”

“She died. At the battle in Ostagar. I didn’t see it happen, but she was with King Cailan’s guard.” Hawke rolled the wine cork between her fingers and looked out into the sky, to a barren, blood-soaked battlefield a thousand miles away. “There was no way she would have made it out.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” They were, Isabela realized, opposite sides of the same tragic coin. Both women had lost so much, but while Isabela caused her own misery, Hawke attracted disasters to her by her mere existence. Hawke was the eye of the hurricane and Isabela, its lashing spirals.

“It’s okay. I think we both made peace with the possibility before we were even conscripted.” A sad, wistful smile. “She’ll always have a part of my heart.”

“But that must have wrecked you. You don’t think you would’ve been better off never having given that part of your heart to another?”

“Of course it wrecked me. By the time we got to Kirkwall and I had a moment to breathe and process it, I thought I would never stop crying. But remembering the way I felt with her made the pain bearable. And I healed. And I’m sure I’ll fall in love again. She would want me to.”

And, with any luck, it would never, ever, _ever_ be her. “I wish I had your optimism,” Isabela said, but she didn’t, really, because she still couldn’t see a bouquet of roses without feeling sick.

They were nearing the end of the bottle, and Isabela was in that very narrow space of just drunk enough to feel floaty and pleasant without going too far into stupid and dizzy. It was all so beautiful. The air, the breeze, the owls hooting in the distance, the night sky twinkling above, Hawke. Definitely Hawke. Though it was muted by the darkness, a boozy blush had made its way across her cheeks, and her tipsy smile and casual touches and the way her lips parted just the slightest bit when she looked at her made Isabela feel elated in a way she couldn’t completely blame on the wine. She wanted this.

There was, however, still that nagging thought, like a bad itch that wouldn’t go away. “You won’t let Hightown ruin you, will you?” Isabela asked, and she knew Hawke would deny it, because she always did, but maybe she just needed to hear it one more time.

“And my sneaking into the Merchant’s Guild to drink wine with a pirate on the roof makes you think that will happen?” Hawke replied, exasperated, and Isabela could concede she earned that exasperation. “Honestly, you've been on edge since I started trying to get the estate back. Why?”

“Because I watched you kill yourself to get this ridiculous house, all for your mother's sake. And I've seen the way sudden wealth can change a person.” She spun one of her rings around on her finger. “I like you the way you are. Quite a lot, in fact.”

“Isabela, my chances of turning into some hoity-toity Hightown snob are exactly the same as the chances of me marrying the seneschal’s son. Absolutely zero. I am my father’s daughter, and Malcolm Hawke was a Fereldan apostate, not Marcher nobility. I don’t know what else I can say to convince you.”

“Have you told your mother you have no interest in her matchmaking?” That was the part that frustrated Isabela the most. In the years she had known Hawke, one of the things that stood out the most, and one of the things she most admired, was how unapologetic Hawke was about herself. That Hawke would play this noble game when she apparently wanted nothing to do with men of any social standing seemed a betrayal of her values.

Hawke sighed. “I… no, I haven’t. I know I should, but… it makes her happy, and it gets her out of the house. Happiness is rare enough in our family these days; I don’t want to ruin that for her.”

“You could always bring _me_ home. _That_ would stop the parade of suitors, I bet. A disgraced, debauched pirate captain of exceedingly low birth.” Isabela traced patterns over Hawke’s neck and collarbone with her fingertips. What a sight that would make, shoving it in Leandra’s face. _This_ is what your daughter wants, not some poofy-sleeved fop. “What would Leandra say to that?”

“I doubt she’d be surprised—remember who she married,” Hawke said, angling her head up, lips within a perfect distance. “Is this you offering to join us for dinner?” A smile and arched eyebrow, perhaps a covert dare, but Isabela knew better than to take the bait.

“Oh, you wouldn’t want that. I have no manners and I’d drink all your wine. Probably try to fondle you under the table. They attempted to teach me etiquette in Antiva, but I’m afraid,” she said, turning and swinging her leg over so Hawke’s lap was trapped between her thighs, “I’m just too wild.”

She could feel Hawke smiling as they kissed, probably thinking about the shitshow that would inevitably occur if she brought Isabela to the estate for assessment. The remnants of the wine lingered on Hawke’s tongue, warm and spiced and rich, and Isabela drank it in, relished it, rocked her hips against Hawke’s waist, need flooding every inch of her body.

There was that telltale pause, that slowdown as Hawke—too caught up in her head—fought against her desire. This time, Isabela wasn’t going down without a fight. Some people needed prodding to force them to act. She decided to give Hawke a little nudge.

“So, you can sleep with the only other Rivaini woman in this entire city, but not me?” she hissed in Hawke’s ear.

Well, maybe more of a shove than a nudge, but it had the desired effect. Hawke, apparently liberated from her own mental restraints, turned the tables, gripping Isabela’s shirt in her fists, pushing her back, and back, flat against the roof, stone chilling her shoulders. Hawke climbed on top, pinning Isabela’s wrists to the ground above her head, breathless, eyes flashing with something dark and furious and wild and _yes_ , this was exactly what Isabela wanted.

“Found that out, did you? She taught me a few things, you know.” Hawke grabbed the bottom hem of her shirt, pulled it up and off, and Isabela had never seen a sight more lovely in her life—Hawke on fire in the moonlight, speaking a language Isabela hadn’t heard in almost a decade: “ _Ana zu achoro. Ni zu amaan-miri egin._ ”

So maybe dirty talk _did_ sound dirtier in her native tongue… as long as it was with a Fereldan accent.

She grabbed Hawke around the waist and pulled her back down, nails digging into hips, tongue and teeth on her shoulder, rough edges. “Let me teach you something new for the next time you visit her,” she said, and she punctuated her words with the heel of her palm between Hawke’s legs. “ _Ana hataa zu bezala sahih ezin-gaa iila mbaalye. Ana zu achoro ni izen sarkha inu._ ”

“Shit.” Hawke shuddered, a breathy laugh escaping her lips. “I didn’t catch all that; I think you might have to say it again.”

So Isabela said it again, and again, and again, until the words themselves dissolved, leaving a lascivious promise in a lingua franca, and leaving Hawke a whimpering mess. She would have to remember to brush the dust off her Rivaini more often if this was the response it earned. The feel of Hawke’s skin under her hands was electrifying, and the way Hawke arched into her touch, the way she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning too loud, was so arousing Isabela feared she might be sent careening over the edge as soon as Hawke touched her. But that was a chance she was more than willing to take.

“How do I even get this off?” Hawke muttered, hands darting over Isabela’s chemise, searching for clasps or lacing that wasn’t merely decorative.

“It fastens on the sides, you dope,” Isabela laughed. “But, fuck, I don’t care about that right now, just…” She grabbed Hawke’s hand and directed it exactly where she needed it to be. “Here.”

If there was ever a sound Isabela wanted to bottle, it was the sound a lover made the moment they got to feel precisely how worked up they had made her. And the sound Hawke made, a delicious mix of surprise and pleasure, was good enough for the top shelf. As for Isabela, she had to muffle herself against Hawke’s neck lest she wake the whole neighborhood. It had been too long, far too long since she had been touched, and longer still since she had been touched by someone she truly, madly wanted, _needed_ to touch her.

“Now it’s my turn to tell you,” she murmured, maintaining complete control of Hawke’s hand, keeping the pressure light, the tempo slow, “ _Ni zu amaan-miri egin_. This is what you do to me.” She dragged the tip of her tongue up Hawke’s neck.

And then the hatch to the Merchant’s Guild slammed open, and Isabela saw, upside-down, a very flustered looking guard shielding his eyes with one hand. Hawke swore and tumbled off her, clutching her shirt to her chest in a sudden attack of modesty. Isabela rolled over onto her stomach and stared daggers at the guard who dared to interrupt her well-deserved dalliance. The ridiculous sideburns identified him as Donnic Hendyr, a suspect on the very short list of men Aveline was likely to fancy, from Isabela’s research—research which largely consisted of watching which guards Aveline sighed longingly at during patrols. 

She forgot to lock the door. This was really just her luck, wasn’t it.

“Like what you see, Donnic?” she drawled, running a finger up between her breasts, laughing lecherously as he blushed.

“We had complaints of noise coming from somewhere near the Merchant’s Guild. You ladies might, er… want to keep it down next time. Oh, and you’re also trespassing on private property. So, I’ll have to ask you to leave, once you’re… composed.” He politely turned away as Hawke tugged her shirt back on.

Isabela accepted Hawke’s offered hand and got to her feet. “I hope we can continue this later,” she said, giving Hawke a quick kiss, a rather chaste action given what they had just been doing.

“Perhaps even in a bed? Crazy idea, I know.” Hawke, bless her, had a twinkle in her eyes that suggested this interruption was only a minor inconvenience.

She sauntered past Donnic and threw him a wink. Bastard.


	13. Act 2, Part 1: "I'm a Ruin"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marina and the Diamonds: "I'm a Ruin"  
>  _I’ll ruin, yeah, I’ll ruin you (I'll ruin you)_  
>  _I’ve been doing things I shouldn’t do (Things I shouldn’t do)_  
>  _But I don’t wanna say goodbye_  
>  _But, baby, I don’t wanna lie_  
>  _To lie, to lie to you_  
>  _I’m a ruin_  
>   
>  Content warning for violence.

Isabela always dreams of books. She wanders through a monstrous library stretching into the hazy heavens of the Fade, filled with books no ladder could ever reach, bowing shelves with their immense weight, threatening to tumble down and strike her in the head at any moment. But they never do. Instead, when she tries to pull one from the shelf, it is immobile, as though it is a part of the bookshelf itself, and so slippery she can never get a grip on it. But every time she has this dream, she feels compelled to rip the books from their places, and every time she tries, they stubbornly remain put.

Every book is identical. Every book is the Tome of Koslun. No one is pursuing her, yet there is always an ever-present creeping dread, an anxiety growing like ivy up a trellis. It builds and builds until she is frantically clawing, tearing her hands open on the book spines, desperate to wrench them out.

And every time she wakes, there are a few terrible seconds where she feels Castillon’s knife at her throat. Then a few more terrible seconds where she wishes she had someone to hold her.

It is hard, sometimes, to keep up the search. Easier to fall into complacency, to pretend the world is in stasis, that Castillon has given up the hunt, that the Qunari will simply remain in Kirkwall like an ugly chair in the living room one would rather ignore than go through the trouble of removing. She sometimes goes months without a scrap of news; then a street urchin will burst into the Hanged Man, breathless, and inform her about a back alley deal they overheard on the docks while shucking oysters. “I didn’t quite catch what the deal was, but it sounded like something old and valuable,” they’ll whisper to her, and she’ll pass a silver their way and try to keep her heart from beating out of her chest. 

There were more liars at first, but she’s developed a reputation, the way she always does when she’s in a city for more than a few days. They’ll say she knows how to spot a grifter a mile away, won’t hesitate to carve their heart out with those daggers she has, and did you know she used to be a pirate captain for the Armada? It’s enough to keep the worst of the lot from crossing her. Her current group of informants is a good one. They know they’ll be rewarded if their information is solid, and they know not to do her dirty. Most of them are children. It’s not by design; it just happens to work the best. The children of the undercity are ignored, treated like the rats that scurry in and out of the sewers, a part of the scenery, a minor irritation at most. The adults around them loosen their lips to a degree they wouldn't around their own. And, maybe, when she looks at them she remembers Naishe, loitering around the fishmarkets, hunting for scraps, swiping clams out of buckets and stuffing them in her pockets.

Amelie is a good informant. She approached Isabela first, not long after she landed in Kirkwall—all of nine years old, but with the swagger and confidence of someone three times her age.

“If you need help finding something, I’m your girl,” she had said, drawing herself up proudly, all spindly limbs and a rat’s nest of tangled blonde hair.

Amelie is one of Kirkwall’s many orphans, and she has learned to play the streets at an early age: stealing, dealing, and likely killing, though Isabela can’t bring herself to ask. Some of Amelie’s leads have even been correct, which is more than Isabela can say for most of her group of misfits. Now Amelie is twelve, and Kirkwall’s gangs have started to take notice. They will want to put her skills to use for their own nefarious deeds. Isabela wishes, like she does daily, that she had a ship. With some guidance, Amelie could make a decent sailor, and even though the seas are treacherous, they are safer than Kirkwall’s alleys.

“I have something for you,” Amelie says, keeping her voice low, but her ocean-blue eyes are bright with excitement. “This’ll be worth five silvers, at least.”

Isabela slides her drink to the side and crosses her arms. She’s generous, but not _that_ generous. “Five silvers? You’ll bleed me dry! If the dirt is quality, you can have two, but only because you’re my favorite.”

“If I’m your favorite, I should get three.” Amelie crosses her arms, too, ever the copycat, which has always been endearing to Isabela, but also worrying, because the last thing she needs is a tiny elven girl looking up to _her_ as some sort of mentor.

“Why did I ever teach you to barter? I’ve created a monster,” Isabela groans, forehead in hand. Amelie drives the hardest bargain south of Antiva, and it’s all Isabela’s fault. But Isabela is Rivaini, and therefore still the master of haggling, and she will not be outdone by a twelve year-old girl. Besides, she knows Amelie needs the coin. “You’ll get two silvers, and _only_ if your info leads to something worthwhile. Otherwise, I walk. That’s final.”

That seems to be a satisfactory arrangement. Amelie’s words spill out of her like a dam breaking: “Fine, fine. All right, so I was hanging out in the sewers under the docks, you know, just listening. And I heard Bonny Lem and Jerem talking—you know Jerem, right? He’s with the Undercuts. Kind of stupid, if you ask me. Anyway. Jerem said he heard some Tevinter fellas are coming to buy some old salvage dug up from those passages off the sewers. Something about jewelry, vases, whatever. But then he said,” and she pauses for dramatic effect and a chance to breathe, “a book! The Tevinters are supposed to be here in a few days, but I don’t know where the meeting is. I bet you could get Jerem to tell you, if you threatened him. He’s a cowardly shitstain rat-bastard, ask anyone.”

“Hey, watch your mouth,” Isabela scolds. “Where did you learn to talk like that?”

Amelie smirks. “From you.”

“Oh.” Isabela is not a good role model for impressionable children. “Well, you don’t get to have a filthy mouth like mine until you’ve worked on a ship.” She fishes out a silver coin from the pouch on her belt. “Okay, here’s half up front. You’ll get the other silver if our friend Jerem has the goods.”

Testing the silver coin between her teeth, Amelie nods, deciding it’s not a forgery. “Can I have a beer?” she asks, eyeing the pint that Isabela has unsuccessfully tried to hide. 

“When you’re older.”

Amelie rolls her eyes, the very picture of exasperation. “Isabela, I’m twelve and a half,” she says, because she is at an age where that half is considered incredibly important. “Practically an adult!” she huffs, as if Isabela is a complete idiot.

In this moment, Amelie has never looked younger, with her knobbly knees and big doll eyes dwarfing her scrawny, dirt-smudged face. “No, little dove, you are not.” Isabela sighs. Naishe would’ve said the same thing, fists planted on her hips, chin tilted up in defiance. “But I’m sure nothing I say can change your mind.” She slides off her stool and ushers Amelie out of the bar. “We’ll see what Jerem has to say about these Tevinters.”

\------

When they get to the docks, Amelie points Jerem out, but she doesn’t need to, because Jerem is exactly the sort of person Isabela expects him to be. They call the scavengers of Kirkwall “sewer rats,” and Jerem looks the part, with a pinched face and a high, reedy voice that he clearly enjoys the sound of, because he can’t stop blabbing to everyone in a twenty foot radius about his great find, the sound reaching them loud and clear, even from their vantage point on the harbormaster’s roof. The two of them track his movements from the rooftops until he reaches one of Kirkwall’s many, many dead ends and leans against the wall, taking a swig from a flask.

“I’ll take care of the rest,” Isabela whispers. Amelie doesn’t need to see it if things get ugly. “You can get out of here. I’ll meet you afterward.”

“I told you, he’s a coward. He’ll squeal if you cut him a little,” Amelie responds, and Isabela doesn’t want to think about how the girl knows _that_ detail.

She waits until Amelie is out of sight, then pulls her hood up and scales down the side of the building, using window sills and outcroppings for hand- and foot-holds, landing softly with bent knees to absorb the sound. In the shadows, she remains still, watching as Jerem tucks the flask back into his jerkin and turns to face the corner. Oh, he’s having a piss. Perfect. She won’t have to worry about him wetting himself when she threatens him.

Knife drawn, she creeps closer, waiting for him to finish, because she knows from past experience if she catches him mid-stream, she’s likely to end up with a soaked leg. As he’s shaking off the last few drops, she strikes, grabbing him from behind, hauling him a few feet away from the rapidly spreading puddle on the ground, her dagger to his throat.

“If you even think of opening that big mouth of yours to yell,” she hisses, “All that’ll come out is blood.”

Jerem swallows, and her blade is close enough to shave the day-old scruff from his neck. “What do you want?” he asks hoarsely, like he’s trying to sound tough, but he’s not fooling anyone with the way he’s trembling.

“A little bird told me a friend of yours is meeting with some Tevinter agents. I’d like to know when and where.” 

When the tip of her dagger touches just under the curve of his jaw, barely enough to pull out a drop of blood, he flinches. Amelie was right.

“I’m not gonna tell you that,” he rasps. “Not when I’m getting a piece of the sale.”

“Oh, but what if I get a piece of you, instead?” Keeping a secure hold on his arm behind his back, she drops the knife down, down to that pale little pink worm still peeking out of his pants. A droplet of sweat drips down his temple from his bald head, then slides past his ear. 

He starts to squirm, so she wrenches his arm back and up, right on the border of dislocation. “All right, all right,” he grunts. “The deal’s in three days, at the residential hex in Lowtown, next to the watchtower. But you won’t be able to fight them all. At least one’s a magister.”

With any luck, she won’t have to fight at all. A simple bit of thievery, or so the saying goes. If she could do it with the Qunari, why not with the Tevinters? But Jerem didn’t need to know that.

“They all bleed and die, same as any other. Same as you,” she says, and she can tell by his shudder that he hears the smile in her voice. 

It could be a trap, of course. He could be waiting in three days time with a pack of his fellow sewer rats. So she would watch, and wait, and listen. If the information was good, it would all be worth it. She can almost feel the salt spray in the air, the sea breeze on her face. Freedom calls.

“Thank you, Jerem,” she says, “you’ve been very helpful. Now go pull your pants up; you’ve got nothing worth showing off.” She turns them both around and shoves him back into the piss-soaked corner. By the time he secures himself back in his pants and spins around, she’s gone.

\------

They’re bringing the loot into the house. Of course they are; why did she think they were going to make the deal out in the open? Trunks and bags and boxes concealing the goods are ferried through the door by the sewer rats like a parade. This makes things more complicated. She has to get in there and find the book before either of the two parties start to deal.

As twilight begins to settle lavender into Kirkwall’s leaden sky, the parade slows to a trickle, then stops, and she knows it’s time to move. Darting out of the alleyway, she slips into the house, silent as a crypt, and immediately begins digging through the piles. This is a massive haul; the rats must have broken into a new room in the labyrinth under Kirkwall. It’s tempting to palm some baubles, but she has come here for a reason, and that reason is five hundred pieces of parchment and ink bound between two thick leather covers.

She sifts through mounds of jewelry, paintings nestled into dusty frames, cracked vases glossed with languages she isn’t familiar with, even something that looks like a lyrium kit for templars. Plenty of tomes, old and brittle and likely valuable, but she knows the one she needs—she’s seen it in her dreams almost every night for the past three years—and none of these are it. Why did she think it would be here among all these Tevinter relics? Desperation has made her careless.

A voice breaks through to her ears, so loud and clear the speaker must be right outside the door. Shit. She’s out of time. Heart in her throat, she scans the house for somewhere, anywhere to hide. The door begins to open as she dives behind an armoire. She tried to be careful, but if they notice the loot has been rifled through…

A woman speaks from somewhere near the door: “We broke through to a new chamber last week. Lost two men in a tunnel collapse, but as you can see, it was worth it.”

There is a tinkling sound, then a clanking, some dull thuds. Someone is delving into the treasure and with none too much care. “Yes, these appear to be from the Imperium,” comes a deep voice, with an accent Isabela can only assume is Tevinter. More rapid shuffling as the first voice grandstands about what a great find it was, how the Imperium always pays handsomely for reminders of its past glory, how there’s more where this came from, they just have to do some more digging. “Where is the tome?” comes the deep voice again, like a cracking whip.

“What tome?” A short burst of nervous laughter. “There’s a whole pile of books here; you’ll have to be more specific.”

“The Qunari tome! The Tome of Koslun! The rest of this garbage is window dressing without it!” The volume of the second voice rises with each sentence, and Isabela shrinks back into the corner, as though the sheer rage of the Tevinter will be enough to find her.

The first voice again, defiant: “That was part of another find. It probably got lost in transit. Why do you care so much about a book when there’s a pile of gold right in front of you?”

A huff of condescending laughter. “Idiot. You have no idea what that book is worth, do you? And now you never will.”

There comes a shout of protest cut short by a sickening crunch, like a tree trunk splitting, and then a gurgling noise that turns Isabela’s stomach. The gurgling briefly weaves into wheezing, then ceases. And then there’s the unmistakable heavy thud of a corpse hitting the floor.

The door opens and Isabela hears more footsteps. “What happened?” asks another Tevinter.

“The Tome of Koslun is not here,” the first man spits, and there is a great clamor, as though he is kicking a pile of relics into the wall.

“What do we do, then?” comes a third voice.

“Take what you can carry. Kill anyone who tries to stop you. We’re not returning to the Imperium empty-handed.”

Isabela’s mouth feels coated with sand. The Tome was here. And now it is gone. Again. It is always one step ahead of her, slipping through her fingers, just like in the dream. She waits what feels like a lifetime for the march of boots in and out of the house to finish. When she’s satisfied the Tevinters are gone, she peeks her head around the armoire to look. The house is empty, save for a few bits of jewelry and ceramics. She stuffs the brooches and rings into her pockets, like the clams at the fishmarket all those years ago. Might as well get some coin out of this blown deal.

As she opens the door to leave, a man shouts behind her.

Turning, daggers drawn, she sees one of the Tevinters storming toward her, blade in hand. No intelligible words come from his mouth, only a roar as he puts both hands to the hilt and swings. It’s a heavier weapon than his frame should allow for, and she’s able to step to the side, letting the blow breeze past. She sends a sharp cut his way, but he swings again and catches her dagger on his crossbar. Angling her body to the side to make herself a smaller target and keeping light on the balls of her feet, she assesses her opponent as she parries his strikes: he’s flat-footed, comes forward instead of circling, drops his guard when he’s not actively striking. He’s green as grass at swordplay, a disposable thug the Tevinters left behind to keep watch.

His mouth drops open as he struggles to get enough air to fuel his wild swings. She turns a blow that could take her head off to the side, but he’s put his weight behind it this time, and it grazes her right forearm, burning pain. Adrenaline blunts the wound even as she grimaces in reflex. A lucky hit. It won’t happen again. His guard exposed, her left dagger darts in, sliding into the gap in his armor at the armpit, smooth as silk.

He cries out in shock, and red blossoms and quickly spreads across his chest. His left arm useless, he continues to swing with the right, but the blade is meant for two hands, and his attacks are clumsy, flagging. It won’t be long now.

His helmet prevents her from reaching his neck from the side, a more likely probability than from the front. The front, however, is free of anything but cloth, and when he no longer has the energy to keep his sword up, she takes advantage, ducking under his swing and exploding up inches from his face, a witness to the half second of terror in his eyes as she plunges her knife into the soft, yielding flesh of his throat.

The sword drops to the floor with a clang as he stumbles backwards, clutching his neck with his right hand in some futile instinct to stop the blood and air bubbling from his wound. There’s some gasping, some choking, and then he is dead.

Isabela wipes her daggers off on his pants. The lust for battle begins to ease, and as it does, the pain in her arm flares up, leaving her clenching her jaw, breath coming short and hard. He got her right above her bracer, blood dripping and coagulating sticky in her glove. She rips off a strip of his clothes to serve as a tourniquet, using her teeth to secure the fabric.

If there were more Tevinters left behind, they would not be dispatched so easily. But the path to Darktown is mercifully clear, and Anders, for a change, asks no questions as his magic knits her back together, a process always more painful than the wound itself, as though her body protests this affront to its own natural healing. She is able to hawk the stolen goods to a black-market merchant for surely less than they’re worth, but it’s coin she didn’t have before, so it’ll do.

When she meets up with Amelie in her usual undercity corner, mean-mugging the best a twelve year-old girl can do, Isabela gives her an extra silver.

“Was it there?” Amelie asks, unable to keep the excitement from slipping in, like she’s been waiting days just to hear about it.

Isabela shakes her head. “Your info was good, little dove. The book was supposed to be there, but someone else got to it first. So keep listening, in case it turns up again.”

Amelie seems disappointed their scheme didn’t bear fruit but smiles brightly just the same. “What do you think these big ears are for?” she says.

“Alright. You know where to find me. Stay safe, Amelie,” Isabela says, though she knows Amelie won’t listen, because Naishe wouldn’t, either.

\------

Despite her shiny new manor in Hightown, Hawke has kept to her word of being a Lowtown sort of girl, visiting the Hanged Man almost nightly. When Isabela enters the bar to see Hawke nursing a pint at their favorite table, the one with the crude drawings carved into it, it’s like she’s back on a ship. It almost feels like home.

Isabela doesn’t bother to order a drink, sliding in next to Hawke on the bench instead. Hawke wraps her arm around Isabela’s waist and pulls her closer—the sort of casual affection that’s become so commonplace since their rooftop excursion. An excursion Isabela deeply enjoyed informing Aveline about later (“I realize any red-blooded man would want to investigate the sounds of two women in the throes of passion, but please tell your guards to refrain next time, would you?” Aveline, to her credit, had the decency to blush before kicking Isabela out of her office).

“What’s new?” Isabela asks Hawke, swiping her pint and taking a drink, ignoring the feeble cry of “hey, that’s mine!” lobbed her way.

Hawke slides her drink towards the other end of the table, out of the range of thieving hands. “I have reached a new and exciting level of importance,” she announces, waving her fingers about in a grand, sparkly gesture. “According to the viscount, the Arishok has apparently asked for me. By name.”

Isabela feels the blood drain from her face, but she recovers enough to blurt out something along the lines of, “Oh, that _is_ exciting,” and if Hawke caught her hesitation, it doesn’t show. “Do you know what he wants?”

“Does _anyone_ know what the Qunari want?” asks Hawke, and Isabela knows. She is the only person who knows, and she will carry that knowledge to her grave. Part of her wants to tell the truth, to bend and let this burden slip from her shoulders, because she knows Hawke would help her carry it. But that’s the same reason she must keep it locked up tight, balanced so precariously on her back. If she tells Hawke that the Qunari will not leave until they recover the Tome, the Tome she stole, the Tome that’s going to keep her from being murdered as long as it falls into Castillon’s hands… she doesn’t want Hawke to have to make that choice, because, deep down, she knows what Hawke will choose.

She just needs a little more time. A little more time to find the book and run. Would it be easier, she wonders, if she were an honest person? Maybe if integrity was bred into her bones the way deception was, it could be, but she is her mother’s daughter. What did Hawke call it? “Self-sabotage.” Maybe Hawke is right. Maybe it _is_ self-sabotage, but Isabela’s tendency toward self-destruction tends to catch others in its blast radius, and if this bomb is about to go off, she needs to be in the middle of the ocean when it explodes. This woman next to her, arm wrapped tight around her waist, doesn’t deserve that fate.

All Isabela can do is shrug.

“I don’t suppose you want to come with me,” Hawke says, and it is both a question and a statement, a request and an accusation.

“The Qunari conquered my country and my people. I have no desire to have any dealings with them,” she replies, and it comes out sharp and hard like forged steel, a side-effect of her conflicted mind. In truth, the Andrastians were the worst butchers of Rivain, killing more than the Qunari ever did. But she has no problem visiting the chantry if necessary, unlike the Qunari compound, and Hawke could sniff that contradiction out in a second.

Hawke appears to buy it. “Okay, fair enough. I won’t ask again.” She pulls her cup back in front of her, but doesn’t drink, just holds it in her hand. “I don’t pretend to even begin to understand the Qunari, but something doesn’t feel right about all this. There has to be a reason Par Vollen hasn’t sent a ship to get them.”

Deflect, deflect, deflect. “Don’t try to apply logic to the Qunari; you’ll end up disappointed every time.”

“Funny, I could say the same about you,” Hawke laughs, and it’s a joke, but she has no idea how right she is. 

Isabela lets herself get pulled into a kiss, so soft and sweet she can almost forget the bomb she hides behind her back.

Just a little more time.


	14. Act 2, Part 2: "The Walk"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imogen Heap: "The Walk"  
>  _It's not meant to be like this_  
>  _Not what I planned at all_  
>  _I don't want to feel like this_  
>  _It's definitely all your fault_  
>   
> 
> I may have gotten a little carried away with Isabela's body modifications. No regrets.

_“I have a great big comfortable bed, you know. Come over tonight. I’ll make sure the house is empty.”_

That Hawke. She had a way with words. It was tempting, Isabela was forced to admit. Though their quick trysts in quiet alleys, side rooms, or wherever else the mood happened to strike them were fun, she wanted more. She wanted the sort of pleasure it took a whole night to achieve, the kind that left her limp and aching and utterly satisfied. She wanted to strip Hawke down, feel her skin against her own, kiss her way up the inside of Hawke’s thigh until she was left begging for it and now she was in front of the Amell estate and when did that happen?

When she opened the door, she expected to see Hawke. Perhaps dressed in nothing but a smile. Maybe with a few dozen lit candles and rose petals littering the place, as she had the sneaking suspicion Hawke was secretly the sappy, romantic sort. But, on second thought, Hawke wasn’t that predictable, so probably not. Or, ooh, perhaps she would be waiting in the bedroom for Isabela to find her. Maybe wearing that corset.

What she didn’t expect to see was Leandra. And, judging by her expression, Leandra didn’t expect to see her, either. 

“Oh!” Hawke’s mother said, and had she been wearing pearls, she would surely have been clutching them. But she recovered quickly, setting her face into that “attempting to be amiable and yet slightly disdainful” noble look Isabela had became so familiar with during her time as Luis’s wife. “It’s Isabela, isn’t it?”

“Captain Isabela, actually,” Hawke said, popping up behind Leandra, sheepish grin on her face. “And I believe you were just leaving, weren’t you, Mother?”

While Isabela appreciated Hawke’s attempt to escort Leandra out the door, it was too on-the-nose, and the sudden knowing glimmer in Leandra’s eyes was more frightening than any dragon. 

“I wouldn’t be a very good hostess if I did that, now would I? Captain Isabela. Please come in; I’ll make some tea,” Leandra said, all smiles.

A dozen excuses to leave flew through Isabela’s head, yet, somehow, none of them could be verbalized. Isabela stared at Hawke over Leandra’s shoulder, attempting to communicate with her eyes alone: “HELP.”

Hawke stared back, then shrugged.

“I’m going to kill you,” Isabela whispered to Hawke as she passed by, following Leandra through the foyer to the sitting room.

“She was just about to leave for the night, I swear,” Hawke whispered back as Leandra busied herself somewhere in the kitchen.

“Bit of a mood killer, Hawke.”

Brutus lumbered over, demanding his usual pats; Isabela obliged him, fighting to stay upright as he leaned his whole body into her.

Hawke looked around, then reached over and grabbed a handful of her ass. “Let me get her out of here, and I can fix that,” she said, and dammit, it was too easy for her. Hawke had Isabela wrapped around those deceptively delicate fingers of hers, and they both knew it.

A few minutes later, Leandra came bustling out of the kitchen, tea tray in hand. “I don’t know what this is that Marian bought, but it smells lovely, doesn’t it?” She set the tray on the table. “Please, sit, make yourself comfortable. We never have guests anymore. At least, not since Marian informed me she wasn’t in need of a husband.”

Hawke was suddenly extremely interested in her teacup.

As Leandra poured the tea, a particular smell permeated the room that hurled Isabela back almost thirty years, to sitting cross-legged on tasseled floor pillows in cabanas with palm-thatched roofs, the sounds of crashing waves and seagull cries filling the muggy air. Black tea, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and ginger.

“This is Rivaini tea. We call it _ihe_ ,” she said quietly, mind still a thousand miles away. For some bizarre reason, she felt a strange prickling sensation behind her eyes, like she was about to cry. She looked at Hawke, who remained very intent on memorizing the decorations on her cup. “Where did you find this?”

“There’s a merchant in Hightown who only sells tea. I special-ordered it.” Hawke, now smiling to herself, still wouldn’t look at her.

Leandra took a thoughtful sip. “This is Rivaini? It’s a very intense flavor.” Isabela had to stifle a snicker, because Leandra had brewed it rather weak. Usually drinking _ihe_ straight was enough to blast one’s sinuses clean. “How do you usually take it?” she asked Isabela.

“With enough sugar and coconut milk to choke a horse.” Isabela doubted Hawke nor her mother had ever seen a coconut, much less tasted one. It was one of the those little things she missed about the north. Hawke looked deep in thought, like she was calculating just how much it would cost to import a coconut to Kirkwall.

“Well, I can’t say we get too many coconuts in the Free Marches, but you’re more than welcome to add as much cream and sugar as you like.” Leandra chuckled politely and doctored her own cup. “So,” she said, eyebrows slightly raised, “You’re a captain. Are you a merchant, then?”

Isabela had the feeling then that she was, perhaps, being interrogated. It was unsettling. “I am. I deal in spices.” Spices, smuggled lyrium… same thing.

Leandra took another sip, seemingly liking the _ihe_ more with the suggested additions. “That’s interesting.” She fixed Isabela with a steady, penetrating gaze that was distinctly uncomfortable. “I would’ve thought you were a pirate.”

Hawke finally looked up from her tea, but Isabela received no assistance from Hawke’s silence and inscrutable expression. So she would play along, at least for the time being, because if anyone could recklessly dive into danger and emerge unscathed, it was her.

“Oh?” she asked, crossing her legs, easing back into the chair, letting the heat from the cup sink into her fingers. “What makes you think that?”

“Because I know my daughter.” Leandra looked at Hawke then with so much pride and warmth it made Isabela’s heart hurt a bit. Hawke smiled back, bashful, like she was caught doing something she shouldn’t. “And I know Marian would want to be with someone more exciting than a spice merchant.”

Oh, she was a clever one, wasn’t she? This was new and horrifying territory, swimming with sharks, not just because Leandra had her cornered like a rat in a trap, but because she thought Hawke wanted “to be with” her, in whatever complicated, emotionally-fraught, not-just-sexual way that could be.

She decided to skirt between honesty and deceit: “Well, merchant or pirate or both, it makes little difference, as I’ve been without a ship or crew for the last few years. Right now, I’m just Isabela.” Hawke’s continued silence was swiftly becoming a nuisance, so Isabela thought she might grab the wheel and spin things around to a more advantageous position. “What was H—I mean, Marian, like as a child?” _Take that, Hawke_. Isabela might not have known much about the sorts of things normal mothers did, but she knew they couldn’t get enough of talking about—and by extension, embarrassing—their children.

Leandra’s face lit up, and Hawke, at long last, met Isabela’s eyes with an expression mixed from equal parts fear, amusement, and a promise of future retribution. “Oh, Marian was always into something. Honestly, until the twins were born I thought the Maker had sent _her_ to be Malcolm’s little boy. Always coming home with skinned knees and elbows or a pocket full of frogs.” Leandra stared off into an upper corner of the sitting room, wistful. “No matter how much I scolded or threatened, I couldn’t keep her at home. I remember when she was about six, she went off into the woods and we weren’t able to find her for nearly three days. We had the whole village combing that forest looking for her. Malcolm and I were scared to death. Well, she finally turned up, covered head-to-toe in mud, a little hungry but otherwise fine. And when we asked her what in the world she was thinking, she said she was ‘looking for witches!’” Leandra laughed and shook her head at the memory.

That sounded like the Hawke she knew, thought Isabela. She could just picture it: little Hawke with twigs and leaves sticking out of her mop of black hair, carrying some big warty toad out of the woods, convinced she had caught a witch. It was all awfully cute.

“And you wouldn’t let me leave the yard for months after that!” Hawke pouted, apparently still wounded by such an affront to her independence two decades later. 

“You’ll understand when you have children of your own, dear. Though,” Leandra said, pausing to lift the tea cup to her lips, “I’m not sure how you’ll manage that without a man involved.”

“Mother, _please_.” Hawke looked so mortified Isabela had to bite back her laughter. 

Then, like a bowhunter with a deer, Leandra took aim at Isabela once more: “So, Isabela, do _you_ want children?”

Well, wasn’t _that_ a personal question. In truth, Isabela _couldn’t_ have children, even if she wanted to—at least not of her own body. Anders had informed her of that, something he was able to divine somehow while fixing up a nasty stab wound in her gut. He didn’t think it came from any injury, he had told her. It just... was. That absence was a part of her as much as her copper eyes. She thought perhaps she ought to be sad about it, to mourn for tiny beings that could never be, but it was more a relief than anything, especially given her… proclivities. But Leandra, who probably thought bearing children was the greatest thing a woman could aspire to in life, didn’t need to be privy to such information.

“Not… particularly, no,” Isabela admitted. “I’ve seen women give birth on a ship, and it’s not pretty. Much less trying to raise a child on one.” Kids were fine in small doses. Any more than that, however, was about as desirable as a rash. After all, Isabela could barely take care of _herself_. Maybe she could start with a pet snail. Or a plant.

If Leandra was satisfied or disappointed with that answer, she didn’t show it. Instead, she finished her tea and set the empty cup back on the tray. “Well,” she said, rising to her feet, “I’m certain I’ve wasted enough of your time with my prattling. Have a lovely evening, my dears.” Giving Hawke a hug and Isabela a curt nod, she swept out the door, leaving nothing in her wake save a vague sense of confusion.

“This is good tea, don’t you think?” asked Hawke, once again contemplating the mysteries of her beverage. “Very nice. I wasn’t sure that merchant was going to come through for me, but with the amount I paid him, I certainly hope—”

“Hawke.”

Slowly, Hawke turned her head until she was looking at Isabela out of the corner of her eye, appearing every bit like a dog caught peeing on the rug. 

“Oh, stop looking at me like that, will you? I’m not mad.” And she wasn’t, not really. A little rattled, perhaps. Maybe peeved, if one was determined to be negative about it. But not mad enough to warrant Hawke looking quite so pathetic.

“You’re not?” Hawke seemed genuinely surprised, like she expected Isabela to storm off or explode into a lengthy string of profanity.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Isabela said, putting her hands up, just in case Hawke was under the impression she ought to bring Isabela to dinner next time, “sailing into the storm that destroyed the Siren’s Call was less nerve-wracking than that conversation. But likely just as inevitable.” She was afraid to know the answer, but she had to ask: “What have you told her, anyway?”

“About what?”

 _About us._ “About the suitors?”

“Ah. Well, after the last one was a complete disaster, I might have gotten a little upset with her and asked that she not bring any more men home for me to meet. We argued about it for a bit, and she told me she could try harder to find more compatible suitors if I told her what I liked. So, I said, ‘Fine, you want to know what I like? Women.’”

Isabela snorted with laughter. To be a fly on the wall during _that_ conversation! “Oh, that is just perfect. And how did she respond to that little tidbit?”

“She was quiet for a while. And then she said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ I told her I could see it made her happy to play matchmaker, and she admitted it did, but not if I didn’t like it.”

“So does she know if Seneschal Bran also has a daughter?” Isabela teased.

“You joke, but I think she was about to suggest it until I told her I wanted to meet someone on my own.”

“I can’t imagine she took that well.” Leandra seemed the sort who enjoyed having control of her family’s social mobility.

“Well, she just sort of sighed and said she shouldn’t be surprised, because she told Grandmother the same thing. And then…” Hawke started to fidget with a spoon on the tray. “She asked if I had already... met someone.”

“And?” Isabela was not the sort to take prayers seriously, or to even make them in the first place, but she was praying then, praying that Hawke wasn’t turning the fun they had into something it wasn’t, because “met someone” spanned a breadth of meanings, the vast majority of which she wanted to stay far, far away from.

“I said maybe I had, but I wasn’t sure yet.”

So. That was an extremely ambiguous non-answer, thought Isabela. But it would have to do. “Well, if she hadn’t figured it out beforehand, she certainly did when you all but shoved her out the door. I mean, I doubt she thinks we’re just going to sip tea all night.”

Hawke smirked. “What, that doesn’t sound like an enjoyable way to spend an evening to you?”

“After that interrogation, you owe me.” Enough playing. Isabela was going to get what she came for. “Take me to bed,” she commanded, relishing the private thrill up the back of her neck when Hawke stood and replied, “Aye, Captain.”

Leaving the tea to grow cold, Isabela peered into all the manor’s nooks and crannies as Hawke led her up the stairs. “You’re sure Bodahn and his son aren’t lurking about the house somewhere, right?” she asked, because the last thing she needed was anyone surprising her when her mouth was busy between Hawke’s legs. That sort of thing tended to be _quite_ distracting for all parties involved when given the full attention it required and deserved.

“That, I am sure of,” Hawke said resolutely. “I sent them off on some stupid errand the next town over. They won’t be back until tomorrow night, at least.”

“Good. Because I,” Isabela purred, gently pushing Hawke through the open door to her bedroom, “am going to take my sweet time with you tonight.”

Hawke’s bedroom felt decidedly unlived in. No decorations, no baubles or knick-knacks, only a writing desk, a few chests for storage, and a wardrobe. The room felt small, too, at least for such a large estate, though perhaps that was due to the overwhelming presence of Hawke’s infamous four-poster canopy bed. She could fit at least four people in there, Isabela thought, and her mind ran off with that idea to very interesting places.

“I can see you lusting after my bed,” Hawke said. “I’ve spent enough drunken nights crashed in the Hanged Man to know their mattresses are probably stuffed with dirt and straw.”

“And _I’ve_ spent enough drunken nights sleeping on the ground to appreciate a dirt-and-straw-stuffed mattress.” Hawke’s bed _did_ look nice, though. “Are those silk sheets?” she asked.

“They are.”

“Oh, Hawke!” Isabela sighed, collapsing into Hawke’s arms like an Orlesian stage actress. “You know how to treat a woman right.”

Hawke, strong and steady, caught and held her up. “Was there ever any doubt?” she asked with a grin.

Isabela managed to work her foot behind her to flick the door closed as Hawke tipped her into a kiss. She slid her arms around Hawke’s neck, down her shoulders to her back. She was determined not to rush things, to suspend the desire Hawke always managed to immediately light in her veins as long as she could stand it. So much of her history was filled with rough, fast rendezvous with strangers, simple tension release; there were few opportunities for something like this, something drawn-out and passionate, fresh and thrilling and maybe a little scary. 

If they were going to do this, she was going to do it the way she wanted. “I don’t want to touch those sheets until there is nothing on my body getting in the way of all that silk.”

“I can take care of that,” Hawke said, and she started by sliding off the two rings on Isabela’s left hand, then the three on her right, setting them on her desk. She worked her way up between kisses, removing the bracer that hid Isabela’s throwing knives, followed by the gold torque around her forearm. 

It was strangely intimate, Isabela thought as she reciprocated, unclasping Hawke’s silver necklace and placing it next to her own rings, to devote such attention to something so mundane. She caught Hawke’s hand as it moved to undo her bandana and slipped Hawke’s bracelet off. The knot holding her bandana now unraveled, she shook her mane loose, and Hawke immediately plunged her hands in it.

“What?” Hawke said in response to Isabela’s cocked eyebrow. “I love your hair.”

“You’ll love it a lot less when you keep finding strands of it absolutely everywhere. And don’t think I can’t feel you trying to figure out how to get this necklace off.” She could feel one of Hawke’s fingers surreptitiously poking around the top of the collar in the back.

“Neck- _lace_ implies something fine and delicate. This is closer to a neck- _brace_ than anything. How do you even turn your head when you’re wearing it?”

“Really, it’s not that difficult. The clasp is—”

“Wait wait! Don’t tell me. I’m going to figure this out.” Hawke ducked behind her and swept Isabela’s hair out of the way to get a better look. “Oh, I see it now. If I squeeze here, it should just... wait, no, that didn’t work. Maybe if I can shift this part up? And then this part down…? There we go!” The cool air hitting the newly exposed skin on the back of her neck was quickly replaced with the warmth of Hawke’s lips, and Isabela shivered.

“If you put half as much effort into making me come as you just did to get that thing off my neck,” she said, “I’m going to have a _very_ enjoyable evening.”

“You know, I always say: if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right,” came Hawke’s voice from behind. The space between them diminished as Hawke pressed up against Isabela’s back, running her hands down her sides and the fastenings of her chemise. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I remember how to take this off now.”

Isabela resisted the urge to grab those wandering hands with her own to put them somewhere more exciting. “Careful,” she teased, “There’s a knife at the small of my back. Might want to remove that before you get too cozy.”

Hawke immediately jumped back as if scalded. “You brought knives?” Then she chuckled. “Is sleeping with me really so dangerous?” Finding the blade and its sheath with a modicum of searching, she retrieved it and set it aside.

“It’s a long walk from the Hanged Man to here. A woman needs to be prepared,” Isabela said. “I’ve one more in my right boot, just so you’re aware.”

“So much for being a simple spice merchant.” 

“You love it. I know you do, because your mother said so. You like the bad girls, don’t you?” 

“I do; I can’t deny it.” Hawke came back around and kneeled to start unbuckling Isabela’s boots, and the sight of her on her knees was an alluring one. As if reading her mind, Hawke glanced up and said, “This must be a nice view for you, hm?” Her grin as she trailed her thumb up the inside of Isabela’s thigh—dangerously close—was a wicked one.

Isabela had to stifle a groan as she halted the ascent of Hawke’s hand. “Oh no you don’t. You don’t get to touch me there until I’m naked and in that bed, understand? Boots. Off. Now.”

“All right, bossy britches,” Hawke sighed with mock-exasperation. There was a pause as she assessed her task. “ _Seven_ buckles per boot? Is that really necessary?”

“They’re Antivan—of course it’s necessary. Less talking, more undressing. Don’t forget the knife.”

Isabela traded places when Hawke was finished, and maybe Hawke’s boots didn’t have fourteen buckles to undo, but they _were_ laced. When Hawke helped her back up, it was all she could do to keep from ripping the rest of Hawke’s clothes off, even as Hawke carefully untied the sash around Isabela’s waist and draped it over the back of the chair. The anticipation was all a part of the fun, she told herself. Patience.

One by torturous one, Hawke unclasped the fasteners on Isabela’s chemise. “Any more knives I have to worry about?” Hawke asked between kisses up Isabela’s neck. “Or other surprises?”

“Knives, no. Other surprises, maybe,” Isabela murmured, closing her eyes as the rush of air against her bare skin unleashed an eruption of goosebumps across her chest. 

“Oh, _these_ are a surprise,” Hawke said, fingertips brushing against Isabela’s piercings.

“They usually are—shit!” An unexpected, throaty curse as Hawke traced the stud with her tongue. “That’s cheating!”

“I was curious, couldn’t help it.” Any further ministrations were interrupted when Isabela hauled Hawke back up by her robe’s lapels and swallowed her smugness with an aggressive kiss. In retaliation, Hawke reached down and grabbed a handful of Isabela’s ass, clad in nothing but a miniscule amount of lace—a recent purchase she wore just for the occasion. The Orlesians weren’t good at many things Isabela cared about, but even she had to admit they made the best undergarments.

With a quick pull of the tie around her waist, Hawke’s robe slipped from her shoulders to the floor, where she unceremoniously kicked it to the side. Isabela had to take a step back, had to pause, had to take Hawke in, had to devour her body with her eyes.

“Not wearing a thing under that robe?” Isabela smiled. “Who’s the bad girl now?”

She wasn’t sure what was more enticing: the sight of Hawke in front of her, beautiful and unadorned save for a slight blush, muscles tensing with anticipation, or the unabashed hunger in Hawke’s eyes. One delicate piece of lace between her and Hawke and those silk sheets.

Stepping back in, she brought her lips to that spot below Hawke’s ear, drawing forth the smallest of sighs. “Almost ready,” she whispered. “Finish the job, Hawke.”

Hawke complied, hooking her fingertips under the fabric and pulling down. As soon as the lace hit the floor, she made to push Isabela onto the bed. Feeling the shift in Hawke’s arms before she had even begun to move, Isabela countered, planting her feet and using the leverage to switch their positions, tossing Hawke onto the bed instead.

Though part of her wanted nothing more than to join Hawke in that ridiculous four-poster, she remained standing, arm wrapped around the corner post, watching Hawke recline languidly, lily white skin floating atop a sea of crimson silk.

“Maker help me, you look so fucking good,” Isabela breathed.

“I can’t think of anything clever to say. Just… get over here,” Hawke said, voice edging close to a growl, betraying her desire, and Isabela finally, finally gave in. Between the silk sheets against her legs and Hawke’s hands back in her hair and the way the sunset was at the perfect angle of descent to send a ray through the window, across the room, over their bodies, Isabela thought she might have discovered divinity, despite all the blasphemies she was likely to utter that night.

She channeled her worship to Hawke’s body, to all those places she had yet to touch. Isabela couldn’t bring herself to say how badly she wanted this, unwilling to show her hand, but she hoped Hawke could feel it. A cartographer of the flesh, she mapped Hawke’s contours with her mouth and hands, from the curving slope of Hawke’s neck to the swell of her breasts to the firm plane of her stomach. Every scar, white and paper-thin to dark pink and jagged, mementos of past conflicts, was committed to the atlas.

Hawke flowed into her, the ocean to her shore. As Isabela dragged her tongue over Hawke’s hipbone, her breath hitched, and then again when Isabela’s mouth found a particularly sensitive spot just adjacent.

This was what she was made for, Isabela thought, easing herself down lower, slipping her arm under Hawke’s leg and bracing it against her shoulder. There was a pause then, a holding of breath, a tension that seemed just a bit off as Hawke realized where Isabela was heading.

“You all right, sweet thing?” Isabela asked, propping herself up on her free elbow. “Remember to breathe. Can’t have you passing out on me. Not yet, at least.”

Hawke laughed. “Just in my head too much, as usual.”

“Well, try to relax. Breathe. I’ll take care of you.” She pressed her lips to Hawke’s thigh. “If you need me to stop at any point, say so, and I will.” She could feel the pressure melt away from Hawke’s body as she took a deep breath and released it.

“Thank you. But, ah… definitely don’t stop. I think I need this.”

“Oh, you and me both.” She turned her head, kissing a path along the inside of Hawke’s thigh, right up to the juncture where it joined her body, adding in some teeth when it felt appropriate, and Hawke relaxed, letting her legs drift open, deliciously wanton. An inch away from where she desperately wanted her mouth to be, Isabela held off until Hawke’s eyes met her own.

And when Hawke said please, Isabela obliged.

Three years. Three years of wondering what Hawke tasted like. How many times had she touched herself in the dark while fantasizing about this moment? But even her (admittedly superb) imagination could never compare to reality. She kept her first pass light, exploratory, and was rewarded with a low groan, wordless and unrestrained.

Sex was a lot like dueling. Every partner or opponent offered something new to learn. Each bout required adaptation. Everyone had weaknesses to exploit. And everyone had tells. Hawke’s tells were—unsurprisingly—subtle. Her vocalizations were quiet and sparse, and Isabela had to rely on changes in her breathing pattern, muscles flexing in her legs and abdomen, and the force of Hawke’s hand tangled in her hair to find the right rhythm. But when she did, she kept her pace relentless, leaving Hawke writhing.

“Isabela,” Hawke gasped, and the sound evolved into a moaned curse when Isabela hummed her acknowledgement. “Please… I need—” She hauled Isabela back up, back into another kiss, and there was something so delightfully sinful about a woman tasting herself like that, Isabela couldn’t keep a shudder from rippling down her spine.

She knew what Hawke wanted, but where was the fun in that? Pulling back so their lips just barely touched, she offered a challenge: “I can take a hint, but I want to hear you say it.”

Something flashed hot in Hawke’s eyes; there was that spark, that fire Isabela adored. And when Hawke then demanded to be fucked, how could Isabela ever deny her?

As Isabela moved to slip her fingers between Hawke’s legs, she was stopped, one hand on her wrist, the other on her shoulder. Hawke pushed her up, then back, until she was sitting. Then Hawke climbed on top of her lap, wrapped her legs around Isabela's waist, and— _oh_.

“Will you ever stop surprising me?” Isabela said, thumbs rubbing circles over Hawke’s hips, and she hoped the answer was a resounding no. Standing on the surface of the sun couldn’t compare to the heat rolling off Hawke’s body, weaving between them.

“Did you really expect me to just lay there the whole time?” Hawke smiled, then leaned in to kiss her, long and slow and deep, shared groans muffled as Isabela effortlessly slid two fingers in—though Hawke was so wet she likely could have started with three.

Hawke pressed their foreheads together, maintaining eye contact, a sweetly intimate contrast to the angry red scratches her nails were surely leaving across Isabela’s back, but Isabela wasn’t one to take issue with a little pain sprinkled into her pleasure. Instead, she took Hawke’s lower lip between her teeth and curled her fingers, her act of retribution, drawing out a sound from Hawke more valuable than gold.

Isabela wasn’t sure which of them was enjoying this more. The angle necessitated Hawke doing most of the work, but she didn’t seem to mind being in control, rocking her hips in synchrony with every twist of Isabela’s fingers, eyes half-lidded, pupils dilated, hazy with lust. Isabela couldn’t look away even if she wanted to, and when Hawke asked for more, she gave it, adding a third finger, and when Hawke asked for harder, she gave it, deepening each thrust of her hand. Hawke could have asked for anything, looking at her like that, and Isabela would have moved heaven and earth to bestow it. She ached with desire, with _need_ , nearly agonizing in its intensity, a sympathetic pulsing between her legs. A heartbeat thudded under her skin, and whether it was hers or Hawke’s, she could no longer tell.

She could sense Hawke was close, finally losing herself in the moment, words falling out of her mouth, expletives, Isabela’s name, pleas, sounds that didn't resemble any words of any language Isabela knew. The latter of which gave her an idea. With some reluctance, she broke eye contact, resting her head on Hawke’s shoulder, her lips just ghosting against Hawke’s ear. And from those lips to that ear came the smooth, rounded vowels and sharp consonants of Rivaini: lascivious vulgarities chief among her lexicon, but occasionally something softer, something sweeter, words she would never dare say in a mutually intelligible language.

Hawke always held her breath during climax, Isabela had learned, as though the mere act of breathing added to everything would simply be too much to handle. Isabela froze, giving the reins to Hawke, letting her ride out the waves of her orgasm at her own pace, the two of them locked in an embrace, Hawke’s arms wrapped tight around Isabela’s back and shoulders. Each miniscule movement brought another tremor, another reflexive clench around Isabela's fingers. Endless seconds passed as her own breathing and pulse slowed to baseline.

Extricating Isabela’s fingers with the barest of winces, Hawke tipped backward onto the pillow with a thud and an exhausted giggle, cheeks ruddy, eyes bright. “That was… wow. You’re good,” she laughed, and the airy sound of it filled the room, made Isabela feel like she was floating, better than the buzz from any Antivan wine.

Isabela raised her eyebrows and licked her fingers clean with a grin. “I am,” she said, and she had never felt so triumphant.

Hawke stretched like a cat waking up from a nap. “What was that word you kept saying? ‘Mm-ball-yay?’ I know I've heard it before.”

“ _Mbaalye_. You’ve got to use your tongue when you say it. Quite appropriate, given that it means ‘to engage in sexual intercourse’ when addressing a woman. Well, more like ‘to fuck,’ really. Definitely a filthy word. One of my favorites.”

Hawke repeated the word, her pronunciation much closer to the mark than before, and Maker damn her if hearing that didn’t set Isabela’s blood on fire. She crawled up next to Hawke’s prone body and threw her leg over so she was straddling Hawke’s chest.

“Better catch your breath, Hawke,” she said, unable to resist touching herself, an attempt to quell the arousal wound tight in her like a coiled spring. It didn’t help, of course, but it certainly caught Hawke’s attention. “I don’t know how long I can wait before taking care of this myself.” She felt her stomach flip in the most wonderful way as she watched Hawke’s gaze leave her face, drifting lower, lower, lower.

“That _is_ a fun place for a piercing, isn’t it?” Hawke mused, unable to take her eyes off the lewd show in front of her.

“What, you’re telling me you haven’t noticed it after all the times you’ve had your hands down my pants the last three weeks?”

“Seeing it is a different experience, I think. But now I’m wondering—” And then Hawke was pulling Isabela onto her face and her tongue was on those twinned metal studs and Isabela had to slam her hand against the back wall to keep upright.

Isabela had never been shy in telling her partners what she wanted and exactly how she wanted it. There was no point in being coy about those sorts of things. Though Hawke didn’t need much direction, apparently having had picked up a few tricks from her visits to the Rose, because it didn’t take much for her to coax a torrent of profanity from Isabela’s mouth. She arched her back, driving her hips down to take every bit of that delicious wet heat inside her that she could. Hawke and her clever tongue rose to the occasion, giving just as good as she got, her hands warm, touch firm as she gripped Isabela’s thighs.

And at some point, in between Isabela’s gasps of “fuck” and “shit” and “yes, _there_ ,” Hawke spanked her. It wasn’t hard enough to do more than surprise, as if Hawke was just testing the waters, seeing what she could get away with.

“If you’re going to smack my ass, do it properly,” Isabela teased, then braced as Hawke put force behind her hand this time, a stinging slap that would likely leave a mark she could wear as a souvenir for a few hours. “Ooh, that was good. Do it again.” Another mark blossomed to match the first. She bit her lip as a guttural moan ripped free from her throat, edges of pleasure-pain blurred together, one and the same.

There was no steady build-up, no gradual increase of pressure. Nothing was predictable when it came to Hawke, so Isabela really shouldn’t have been shocked when orgasm slammed into her like a thirty foot wave, like a shove off a cliff, dragging Hawke’s name from her lips in a strangled cry, leaving her with both hands up against the wall, arms and legs trembling. She hoped the neighbors heard it. Let them know Lady Hawke would rather be tongue-deep in a Rivaini pirate than attending their vapid dinner parties.

Limbs turned to jelly, she nearly tumbled off of Hawke, blinking back tears. That was good. That was very, _very_ good. She tried to steady her breathing while gesturing at Hawke’s face.

“You’ve got a little something on your chin there,” she said, and oh, it hurt to laugh, but she couldn’t stop the fit of giggles, drunk on post-sex bliss.

“Oh, I bet,” Hawke said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, looking only a little embarrassed about the mess. “I thought I was going to drown a few times during that, honestly.”

Isabela threw an exaggerated arm-wave toward the bed’s canopy, a difficult task when on one’s stomach. “What a way to die, though! I can just see the notices tacked up to the boards: ‘Local Noblewoman _Perishes_ While Pleasuring Her Lover!’”

“I’ll tell Varric. I bet he’d love to include that in a story.” Given the sorts of stories he had already been telling with Hawke in the starring role, it wouldn’t be terribly out of place.

“Oh, these sheets just feel so _good_ ,” Isabela mumbled into the pillow. “It’s like I’m being caressed by angels.” She watched Hawke leave the bed to light a few candles, bathing the room in a warm glow, before climbing back in next to her. When did the sun go down?

“They are lovely, aren’t they? You’ll have to roll around on them more often,” Hawke replied, easing onto her side, propped on an elbow. Isabela could only manage an affirmative grunt in response, suddenly so pleasantly comfortable and satisfied that anything more was entirely too much of an effort.

She could feel Hawke tracing designs on her back with her fingertips. “You have quite a few tattoos back here I haven’t seen yet. What do they mean?” Hawke asked, tapping each one.

If it was a ploy to keep Isabela in Hawke’s bed, it was a good one. She decided to humor her. “I can’t even remember what’s back there. You’ll have to tell me what you’re looking at.”

“This one looks the biggest. A bird?”

“Ah, that’s the oldest one.” Black filigree in the shape of a sparrow, perched on her right shoulder. “I got it after Luis died. One of the first things I did, actually, to celebrate my freedom.” Not the most creative of ideas, she could concede, but there was still some sentimental value in it. She would not be caged, not ever again.

“And this one?” Hawke dropped her fingers lower down Isabela’s back, touch just firm enough to avoid tickling—a good thing, given that Isabela, to her great shame, was extraordinarily ticklish. “A cat?”

“For the Black Cat, the first ship I ever captained.” Dice and Bones had encouraged her to get the ink as a memento when they finally made the journey back to Rivain, despite the ship’s catastrophic end.

“What happened to it?”

“Rivaini have a saying: ‘ _Obi ghurab ez-eman_.’ Literally, ‘don’t give a crow your home,’ but it means don’t trust an Antivan.” All those years later, and thinking about Arturo still made her seethe. She hoped fish were picking at his bones at the bottom of Rialto Bay, and she was willing to entertain a belief in the Void as long as it meant his soul was screaming eternally in it. “I was betrayed by my helmsman. The ship was destroyed in a firefight and I almost died escaping.”

“Your helmsman was an Antivan, I take it?”

“Named Arturo, yes. I should’ve known what would’ve happened. Maybe they’re not all bad, but most I’ve met have been a headache, at best.” At least the ones not named Zevran.

“Are you sure I should help you get another ship? You seem to have bad luck with them.” Hawke’s tone was light, but her words still struck too close to home.

“I care about my ships very deeply. And I always end up destroying the things I care about,” Isabela stated matter-of-factly. And if Hawke continued to insist on these post-coital intimacies, she would inevitably suffer the same fate.

Hawke drew a circle along the small of Isabela’s back. “What about this compass?”

Isabela chuckled at the memory. “Oh, that’s just typical sailor bullshit. It was either that or a topless mermaid.”

“I can’t believe you would choose a compass over that.”

“Well, the tattoo artist was piss-drunk—we were all piss-drunk, actually, now that I think about it—and I didn’t trust him to make a mermaid that didn’t look diseased or something. Probably would’ve given her a fish’s head and a woman’s legs, just for shits and giggles. Hence, the compass. Better than an anchor, anyway.” She struggled to remember the remaining designs on her back. “There should be one more, right?”

“Mmhm. This skull here with the red across its eyes.” Fingers drifted over Isabela’s left shoulder blade, outlining a grinning jaw. “I feel like I’ve seen it before.”

Isabela sighed. “It’s the sigil of the Felicísima Armada. All captains have to get that tattoo. That way, if we turn rogue, everyone knows where we came from. It’s funny,” she said, thinking back on the years when she had a ship and a crew and an ego the size of the ancient Imperium, “I was so proud of it when I got it. Now I just want to get something to cover it up. Next time I’m up north, I guess. No one here is any good at something like that.”

“I know you have more. Come on, roll over.” Hawke wedged her hands under Isabela’s side and pulled, flipping her over and earning a squawk of protest in the process. Isabela had no choice but to lay there helplessly while Hawke pored over her body. There were worse things, she supposed. “Yes, I saw these earlier,” Hawke said, dragging her finger across Isabela’s ribs, just under her left breast. “Are these... tally marks?”

That tattoo was a continually evolving one, and the only one she had added to since landing in Kirkwall. It was simple—seventeen black tallies, one red—but it was more meaningful than all her others combined. Even the placement was purposeful: the ribs were a particularly painful place to get tattooed, appropriate for a particularly painful subject.

“They are,” Isabela said quietly. “One mark for all the crewmembers I’ve lost over the years. At least the ones I liked, anyway.” She smiled, so bitter it was closer to a grimace.

“What is this red one?”

She knew Hawke would ask, but it was still difficult to explain. “That one is for a man called Bones. He was one of my best friends. The brother I never had.” Though Hawke didn’t ask for elaboration, Isabela still felt the need to speak, to force Hawke into seeing a bit of the darkness she carried with her. “He and his man Dice were with me since the Black Cat. He was like that boy Feynriel, I think. A dreamer? Maybe not, but it doesn't matter. I took the two of them to a brothel in Antiva to celebrate their marriage.” She swallowed hard and thought about grabbing Hawke’s hand, a rope in the water to keep her from sinking. Thought about it, but didn’t. “A desire demon tried to possess him. I had to kill him to keep him from becoming an abomination.”

Hawke’s hand settled over the tallies like a shield, or a funeral veil. “Oh, Isabela. I’m sorry.”

“He was a good man, him and Dice both. They didn’t deserve that. But like I said, the things I care about…” She trailed off. “I’ve never told that story to anyone before.”

They were quiet for a time, lost in a fog of thoughts and memories, and Isabela wasn’t sure when it had happened, but Hawke had moved so she was pressed against Isabela’s side, their legs entangled, Hawke’s chin resting on her shoulder, arm slung across Isabela’s ribs. It felt warm. It felt safe. And maybe, if she could stop time, could stay like this and never have to add another tally, everything would be okay. But that would require either never sailing again or never caring about her crew, and Isabela wasn’t sure which of those was the more impossible task.

“Do you want me to keep going?” Hawke asked.

“Yes, please.” Anything to not think of Antivan brothels and a knife dripping red. “The one by my hip is a much funnier story, I promise.”

Hawke smirked, sliding back up off the pillow to get a better look at it. “That’s a tattoo? I thought you were stabbed and it healed badly. Or maybe a birth defect.”

“You ass.” Isabela gave Hawke a weak swat on the arm, too tired to put any real effort into it. “I got that one in a prison in Val Chevin.”

“Okay, this I have to hear.”

“I wasn’t in there for anything interesting. Just got caught stealing some jewelry from the wrong noble. But there was this woman in there with me. A botanist. She learned her husband, Duke Something-Or-Another, was cheating on her. So she went and plucked some flowers from her collection and made him his afternoon tea. He dropped dead, _whack_ ,” she clapped her hands together, “right on the table. They tossed her in the brig, and she wanted the proper prison experience, so I let her give me this tattoo, since she refused to get one herself. It’s supposed to be a rhododendron. She said it means ‘beware, beautiful but poisonous.’ Anyway, it got infected, and by the time I finally got it healed, it had scarred so terribly you could hardly tell what it was anymore.”

“That is tragic,” Hawke said, exploring the scar’s textures with her fingers.

“Isn’t it? I swear, it didn’t look half bad before it started weeping pus everywhere. There’s just two more; let’s see if you can find them.”

“I already know they’re on your leg. I got a good look at them while I was trying to take off those bloody boots of yours.” Hawke lifted Isabela’s right leg until it was bent at the knee, the sole of her foot flat against the sheets. That particular tattoo, delicate and curving, slithered up the inside of her calf. “It’s a snake, right? Any reason for that one?”

“No, I just like snakes.” And maybe she had been called one a few times, but she had been called a lot of things, most of which weren’t fit to be put on her body.

“And this one next to it? A beetle?”

“Beetles are ill omens in Rivain. It felt very rebellious, you know, to get something like that permanently inked into my skin. But that was back when I was young and stupid and fancied myself a real dissident. Well, young _er_ , at any rate. I’m still stupid.”

Hawke planted her hand on the space next to Isabela, across her body, then leaned down until they were face to face. “I don’t think you’re stupid,” she said, and her smile was genuine, bereft of its usual biting edge, the kind that so few got to see.

As Isabela stared into Hawke’s eyes, warm puddles of rainwater reflecting the sky, she felt as though she was hanging off the deck railing of a ship in a squall, and the next gust would rip her free, sweep her under the water into oblivion, never to be seen again. _Yes, I am stupid. I am so, so stupid_. So she kissed her one more time, tender and slow, the only thing she could give.

“I should go,” she said, and she didn’t want to, but it would be better for both of them if she did. Shimmying out from under Hawke’s arm, she slid out of bed, the floor cold under her toes.

Hawke’s voice came from behind her back: “You could stay.” It wasn’t accusatory or pleading, simply a statement of fact, of possibility.

“I could, but I’m not going to, because I’m not that kind of woman.” And she wasn’t, and she never would be, not for Hawke, not for anyone. “But I’ll come back, don’t you worry. You and those sheets have me hooked.”


	15. Act 2, Part 3: "Dressed to Suppress"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metric: "Dressed to Suppress"  
>  _And we keep speeding_  
>  _And we keep crashing_  
>  _And we keep reaching_  
>  _And we keep crying_  
>  _'til we start laughing_
> 
> The "All That Remains" chapter. Content warning for, once again, alcohol abuse.

Certain events can sear themselves into a mind, leaving ugly, twisted scars that never fully heal. Isabela had accumulated a number of these wounds throughout her life. Her mother, Luis, Bones, Devon, Castillon: they had all wielded the brand at some point, unintentionally or not, leaving their indelible marks on her psyche. And now she had one more, fresh and blistering: guarding Hawke’s back as they descended into a madman’s playground, following a blood trail down, down into the depths of depravity, the stench of death clinging to every surface. Bearing witness as Hawke began to come apart at the seams the further down they went. Even as Hawke clutched Leandra—no, Isabela had to correct herself, it wasn’t Leandra—the face was correct, though warped and grey from the blood mage’s perverted denial of death, but the body was wrong, a collection of other women’s parts, stitched together like a child’s doll. Even as Hawke clutched that corpse wearing Leandra’s face, she held it in, despite the breaking fragility in her voice. “I’ll be fine, Mother.” They all left with new scars that day. 

What could Isabela say? What could anyone possibly say to ease that kind of pain? The killer was dead. Isabela had seen to it herself, slamming her dagger into his back so hard it came out his stomach on the other side. And then she kept cutting, and cutting, vengeful desecration, until Aveline’s strong arms were around her, pulling her away. “He’s dead, Isabela. He’s dead,” Aveline had said, sounding so gentle, like she was trying to soothe an upset child, fighting back her own tears as hard as she fought to keep Isabela from ripping up the body further.

Isabela wasn’t any good with words, with sympathy, with emotions outside a narrow band of lust and revelry. She was good at killing. That was all she had to offer. He would never hurt another woman again. But that brought no comfort to her, and it would bring no comfort to Hawke.

So she sat in her room at the Hanged Man like a coward, drinking enough whiskey to pickle an ox, slipping in and out of consciousness until she no longer knew what day it was. When it worked, her brain stilled, mind and body numbed. More often than not, though, the alcohol merely served as a spoon to stir the contents of her head around. Then Leandra’s bloated face mixed with Bones’s slit throat and her mother’s red-streaked eyes, the screams of five hundred slaves plunging into the ocean blended with the sounds of cannonfire and the hull of the Siren’s Call tearing apart beneath her feet, and the smell of rotting flesh fused with piquant dark rum. Until all her scars twisted up into a knot she could not begin to untie, and all she could do was hold on, slam her eyes shut, and wait for the torture to stop.

It was as she was beginning to come down from one of those waking nightmares that the door to her room opened. Groaning, she pulled the blankets over her head, a feeble shield against the outside world.

“I see you’ve been handling this well,” Varric said, stepping over a pile of empty bottles and sending one clattering to the floor, making her flinch. Of course it was Varric. It didn’t matter to him if a door was locked. Though she was willing to believe by now he owned a copy of the keys to the building. He had certainly been pestering the viscount enough about it.

“What do you want?” she mumbled from inside her cave. Everything hurt. Why did everything hurt?

The bed creaked in protest as he sat down next to her. “C’mon,” he said, not unkindly, and tugged the blankets down. Isabela thought she ought to be grateful she was still wearing clothes. It was a hollow relief; she didn’t really care if Varric saw her naked, anyway, and the only reason she was wearing anything was due to not having the motivation to change for four days straight. “Shit, Rivaini, you look rough.” She peered through bleary eyes just in time to catch Varric’s cringe. Bastard. “Look, I’ll keep it short,” he continued. “You’re not gonna like this, but you gotta go talk to Hawke.”

Where did Varric get off trying to boss her around? She didn’t _have_ to do anything. If she wanted to lay around in bed and drink herself blind, she damn well could, and no man, elf, dwarf, qunari, or anyone else could convince her to do otherwise. She gave him her nastiest glare, but then there were three Varrics swimming in front of her and she was forced to close her eyes again.

“Why?” she asked.

“Daisy and I have both gone over to her house and got the same treatment. Hawke answers the door looking like death, says she’s fine, tells us to leave. That’s it. We can’t get anything out of her.”

“Maybe she _is_ fine and she just doesn’t want your company.” It was a pathetic insult, and Varric likely didn’t deserve it, but Isabela didn’t care. She wanted to drink alone and wallow in misery, not be a caring friend. She didn’t want to think about Hawke. She didn’t want to think she had any power to help. That kind of responsibility was terrifying.

“Let’s pretend for a moment that Hawke _isn’t_ my friend and I don’t know what her ‘not fine’ looks like,” Varric said flatly, unwilling to be baited into an argument. “Just think about how fucked up _you_ are, and it wasn’t _your_ mother down in that basement. Go talk to her. She needs to be around people who care about her.”

Isabela decided not to address what Varric could possibly mean by “people who care about her.” In fact, she decided to ignore it completely, because she had the absolute worst headache as is, and that train of thought would only add another sledgehammer banging on the inside of her skull.

“And why do you think she would bother talking to me?” she said, wrestling the blankets out of Varric’s hands and yanking them up to her chin like a petulant child.

Varic sighed. “Call it a hunch.” He looked around her disaster of a room with barely concealed disgust. “I’m telling Corff to cut you off. Sober up and go to Hightown. Please,” he added as an afterthought.

When she grunted what could be considered an affirmative response, he finally left. And though she tried pleading her case with Norah the next time she came upstairs, Varric had made good on his promise. It was just water for her.

Despite sobering up fully after the first day, anxiety’s icy grip left her shaking and dry heaving for the next two after that, just the same.

“What am I even supposed to say?” she muttered to herself, wincing as she finally mustered the courage to step outside for the first time in a week. Why did the sun insist on being so fucking bright? “Hello, Hawke, sorry about your mother. Your life is shit, isn’t it?” Traversing the winding path to Hightown, she ignored the befuddled stares of passerby. A woman should be allowed to talk to herself, she thought, stomping up the first of many, many steps. “Yes, I know I’ve been gone for a week. The only way I know how to cope with trauma is drinking and having sex with strangers, and the latter is becoming awfully rare these days.” A few dozen steps up, she stopped to lean against a lamppost and catch her breath. Apparently her week-long bender had wrecked her worse than she thought. “I hate you, Kirkwall,” she growled. “Fuck this stupid city and fuck these stupid stairs.” A mother shot her a judgmental glare, hands clamped firmly over her young son’s ears as they passed her going the other direction. “And fuck you, too,” Isabela mouthed at their backs, throwing in an aggressively thrusted-up middle finger for good measure.

It had rained that morning, leaving the city uncomfortably damp and reeking of wet dog mixed with rotten eggs. “Am I supposed to bring something?” Isabela said, continuing her conversation with no one, eyeing the market stalls as she approached the summit. “I mean, if _my_ mother died, I would want cake and strippers, but somehow I doubt that would be appropriate for Hawke.” What did one get someone consumed by grief? What would a good person do? “Flowers?” she mused, passing a stand overflowing with bouquets: roses, tulips, chrysanthemums, reds and pinks and yellows, emitting a perfume so heavy one could smell it across the plaza. The botanist in Val Chevin’s prison passed the time by regaling anyone who would listen about flower meanings. What did she say were mourning flowers? That’s right. White lilies. Oh. No, that wouldn’t work at all.

She wandered the square, passing each stall and contemplating the merchandise. Maybe a new set of gauntlets? Ugh, no, that was an Aveline-level of gift-giving. A nice dagger? A woman could never have too many knives, after all. But no, Hawke said her greatsword and one dagger in her belt were enough, no matter how much Isabela argued. Alcohol? Rum was a traditional Rivaini funeral gift, but no, alcohol was _her_ coping mechanism of choice, not Hawke’s.

A bookseller made shop on a glorified rug in the corner of the plaza. It was by far the most plain-looking storefront in Hightown, but Isabela felt drawn to it, regardless. Crouching down in front of the books lined up on the ground like little soldiers, she scanned the titles, looking for something familiar. She noticed the collection of Varric’s novels right away with their gaudy covers—though she knew the author’s portrait on the back was where the real gaudiness could be found. Some popular travel guides by Brother Genitivi; Isabela reckoned she could give him a run for his money when it came to tales of adventure. Orlesian works by some bard named Philliam. None of those seemed right.

“Looking for anything in particular?” drawled the bookseller, a tiny old woman wrinkled as a prune, with a shock of white hair looking ready to fly away at any moment from its perch atop her head.

 _Maybe…?_ “Do you have _The Adventures of Madeline Gladstone_?” Isabela asked on a whim. It was one of the first books her reading tutor gifted her once Isabela had grasped the basics. The titular character was an eleven year-old girl from Evesleigh, a made-up hamlet in Ferelden. The book detailed her fantastical journeys around the countryside, accompanied by her talking cat, Theodore. Isabela was so proud the first time she struggled through it, looking up every other word, using her finger to keep track of her place. The second time was easier. Then she read it again, and again, and it carried her through the darkest times as Luis’s wife. Even when her reading skills eclipsed the simple prose a hundred times over, even when she was considered far too old to enjoy it, immersing herself in the world of Madeline and Theodore never lost its appeal.

As the bookseller passed the copy over, just looking at the cover again made Isabela feel like being tucked under a warm blanket on a chilly night. It was silly, but maybe it could make Hawke feel better, too.

“That was my last copy,” the old woman said as Isabela handed her a few coins. “A good tale. It was my granddaughter’s favorite.”

Well, maybe Hawke would let Isabela borrow it when she was done.

But as she neared the tree-lined pathway to Hawke’s door, doubt began to seep back in. Why her? Why would anyone choose her to be any sort of savior? She barely knew Leandra. They had crossed paths a few times after her initial interrogation tea party, and while they were admittedly pleasant encounters, she never felt like she _knew_ Hawke’s mother beyond the most superficial details. And, strangely, Isabela regretted not knowing more when she had the opportunity. There were questions she would never get to ask: “Did you ever truly understand all the sacrifices your eldest daughter made for your benefit?” “Did you ever think to ask if she was happy?” “Did you value the name ‘Amell’ over the name ‘Hawke?’”

Truthfully, those questions would have stayed locked inside Isabela’s mind for eternity even if Leandra had been alive to hear them, but the finality of death extinguishing the barest sliver of chance felt like a door slamming shut.

Mouth a desert, palms a swamp, Isabela sighed and set the book against a marble column a few feet to the left of the door. It was a stupid idea. A children’s book for someone likely in the worst emotional torment of their life would probably be seen as disparaging. See, she told Varric she wasn’t any good at this. Grabbing the brass door knocker in her hand, she knocked the door three times before her brain could convince her to turn tail and run.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but Messere Hawke is not accepting visitors at the moment,” came Bodahn’s voice before he had even fully opened the door, clearly a script he had memorized and spouted multiple times that week. Isabela could see the gears turning when he finally looked up at her. His eyes widened. “Oh! Captain Isabela! Please excuse my rudeness! Come in, come in!” 

Isabela wondered how many well-intentioned dignitaries Bodahn had to turn away this week. Maybe some were genuine in their concern, but she imagined most were more interested in being seen by other nobles offering their condolences. The game was played the same way everywhere. She remembered the parade of “grievers” weeping and kissing her hand after Luis’s death. In Antiva, the louder one wailed at a funeral, the better, a cultural idiosyncrasy Isabela had learned less than a minute into the proceedings. Oh, the crocodile tears she cried that day could drown a man.

“Messere Hawke is in the library. You must forgive her if she isn’t very talkative. It’s been a… trying week,” Bodahn said quietly, closing the door behind them.

Isabela thought of all the things she could possibly say as she walked from the foyer to the sitting room to the library. _I’m sorry. It will be okay. Your friends are here for you. We’ll get through this_. It all sounded so trite. But none of it mattered, because when she saw Hawke standing there, staring into the fireplace, her words fled, unimportant. She pulled Hawke into an embrace, let her collapse, and nothing else was necessary.

They stayed like that for a small eternity, clinging to each other, Isabela cradling Hawke’s head to her neck until Hawke’s sobs turned to intermittent sniffles. And then they stayed like that for a little longer, because maybe Isabela needed it, too.

“Come here,” Hawke said, her voice hoarse, grabbing Isabela by the hand and leading her up the stairs to the upper level of the library. It was an impressive collection, likely dating back to the previous generation of Amells, maybe even further. Someone in the family must have been a history buff; entire shelves were devoted to dusty, long-untouched books detailing the Free Marches of yesteryear. A second shelf held a collection of books related to magic and genealogy—likely the result of a family determined to destroy the “curse” of magic in their bloodline. A blanket and pillow were tucked between the bookcases in the corner. It was dark and quiet—secluded, if a little chilly. “I’ve been sleeping up here the past week,” Hawke admitted, settling herself on the ground against the bookcase. “I can’t bring myself to walk past her room.”

“I think that’s understandable,” Isabela said, sitting down next to Hawke and draping the blanket over their legs. Hawke leaned in and rested her head on Isabela’s shoulder. She looked so tired, more tired than Isabela had ever seen her, eyes dulled and red from crying, her skin sallow, face gaunt. Though Bodahn was likely fussing over her like a mother hen, Hawke was not the sort to accept help. “How are you feeling, really?” she asked Hawke. “And don’t you dare say you’re fine, like I know you’ve been telling everyone else.”

Hawke didn’t respond, just rubbed her thumb in small circles over the underside of Isabela’s forearm. Finally, she spoke, each syllable burdened with terrible exhaustion: “I think I have felt every single emotion over the past week a million times over. Except fine. I have never once felt fine.” Her foot brushed against Isabela’s under the blanket. “But you were there, too. How have you been feeling?”

“Drunk, mostly. And scared. I can’t stop thinking about—” Hawke’s mother’s dead, empty eyes and sewn-on neck, the way she shuffled toward them, like her fabricated body was in danger of caving in on itself, "—what happened.” Isabela pressed her cheek to the top of Hawke’s head. “I’m sorry it took me so long to visit. I didn’t… know what to say.” That felt like such a pathetic excuse. “I didn’t think I would be helpful. For you.”

There was a brief burst of air, a nascent laugh. “Promise you won’t be mad at me for saying this, but I honestly didn’t expect you to come at all.” Hawke’s hand had dropped down Isabela’s arm until their palms met, a quiet suggestion without expectation. “But I’m glad you’re here,” Hawke said.

Isabela lifted the tips of her fingers, pressed them against the back of Hawke’s hand. Hawke followed suit, gingerly, as though they were holding a butterfly within their grasp, as if too much pressure would call attention to the action and shatter it.

“Me too,” Isabela replied, and she meant it.

“It’s funny,” Hawke said, though it wasn’t really funny at all. “You ever just feel like life is a series of terrible events, one after another? It’s like I’m falling down all these flights of stairs, and I keep hitting the landings and thinking, surely this must be it, but then I round the corner and I just keep tumbling down.”

“Yes,” Isabela sighed, because Hawke had no idea just how many staircases she had fallen down in her life. “I know what you mean. Difference being, I’m the cause of all the terrible events in my life, so it’s more like... I keep throwing myself down the stairs, but terrible things just... seem to happen to you.” She winced, then attempted a course-correction: “Sorry, that sounded more comforting in my head. What I mean is, you’re a good person, and you don’t deserve this.” 

Hawke gave Isabela’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re a good person, too.” 

The response was automatic, for Isabela could not process hearing her name and “good person” in the same sentence without a “not” between them. “I’m not, but thank you.” 

“You are, or you wouldn’t be here right now.”

Were those two things so mutually exclusive? How could she keep one hand laced with Hawke’s while the other grasped blindly for the Tome of Koslun in the dark? How long could she keep walking this tightrope, this tug-of-war between staying and leaving, a chance at life versus inevitable death? It hurt to care, but Isabela always found herself caring too much—on the inside, within the prison of her ribcage, locked away for no one else to see.

Hawke’s tone took a more somber turn, thick and weary, displaying the cracks spider-webbing through her armor: “I feel like I keep losing everything I love.”

It was at that precise moment the rope snapped, and Isabela felt something inside her chest break with it. And all she could do was hope against hope that Hawke didn’t love her, because Isabela would simply be one more flight of stairs to fall down.

“I’m sorry,” she said, an apology for past losses and those still yet to come.

“I’m so angry. We were finally starting to get close again. Like mother and daughter instead of two strangers. And now she’s gone.” Hawke sniffed, cleared her throat. “She blamed me, you know. For Carver’s death. I remember exactly what she said: ‘This is your fault. How could you let him charge off like that?’ I don’t know why that’s all I can think about now.”

“I think she was just speaking from grief. I’m willing to bet she never truly thought you were at fault.” Even as she said it, ire rose bitter in the back of her throat. Carver was a grown man when he died; a man capable of making his own decisions independent of his sister. And maybe Isabela didn’t know the details, maybe she wasn’t there to see it, but she knew Hawke. And Hawke would’ve thrown herself on her sword to protect her family without a second thought.

“It was always something I wanted to ask, but there was never a good time for it. And now I’ll never know.” Hawke had shifted so she was sitting between Isabela’s legs, Hawke’s back to Isabela’s chest. She slouched down and tilted her head back until it rested against Isabela’s collarbone. “So many things get left unsaid when you think you have all the time in the world to say them.”

“I wish I got to know her better,” Isabela admitted, surprising herself. “Carver and your father, too.” Hawke’s relationship with her family was always such a foreign concept. To Isabela, it felt like walking past storefronts and gazing at lavish trinkets one could never dream of affording. Or the way the denizens of Darktown looked up at Hightown’s marble edifices. If loving blood relations were gold, Isabela was truly impoverished.

“Oh, Carver would have had such a crush.” Hawke chuckled. “He would be falling all over himself to try and impress you. Probably do something stupid and hurt himself.”

Isabela encircled Hawke with her arms, the shared warmth of their bodies fighting off the lingering chill in the air, a stubborn reminder of life. “And you would steal me away from him! Such a mean sister you are.”

“The worst,” Hawke said with a grin. “He was always such a jealous little shit; it would have been like everything else. Everything I did, he had to do better. Swordsmanship, horseback riding, even cooking.”

“And wooing shipless pirate captains?”

Hawke’s fingertips toyed with Isabela’s rings, tapped silent melodies along her knuckles. “Guarantee it. As for Father… I feel like you two would be up half the night swapping stories and coming up with stupid jokes.”

“Ah, so the smart mouth comes from the Hawke side of the family? I thought so. Your mother and Gamlen never struck me as the jocular sort.”

There was a pause, and the corners of Hawke’s lips made the barest of upturns, a conspiratorial smile Isabela almost didn’t catch. “She liked you, you know,” Hawke said, speaking to the floor. “She told me so.”

“She did? I could never tell.” Leandra had a level of facial control perfect for card games, a trait Hawke had apparently inherited. Though she was never unkind to Isabela, there was always an air of judgement provoking this sense of not being good enough—not good enough for her daughter, not good enough to slink out of Lowtown, not good enough to walk through the estate’s front door.

“I mean, she saw you come to Gamlen’s every day to walk the dog while we were gone on the expedition. She knew you were close with Bethany. So it’s not like you were a complete stranger. Maybe you won’t believe it, but she told me, ‘I can understand what you see in her. She’s beautiful and clever.’ And then she said, ‘It seems like she cares for you, in her own way.’”

Isabela realized she had been holding her breath. “Well, I... I do. In my own way. Don’t tell anyone, though. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” 

It was an odd feeling, being exposed by a dead woman. Isabela never had the slightest inkling Leandra thought of her as anything more than a delinquent tramp, which, while accurate, was not exactly congruent with “beautiful and clever and cares about my daughter.” Was it right to feel proud? Why did she even care what Leandra thought? Especially now?

Hawke’s voice cut in again: “You’ve never spoken much about your own mother. I know you weren’t on the best of terms, but I admit I’m still curious what she was like. And, honestly,” she tilted her head, flicked her eyes up until they met Isabela’s in a silent plea, “maybe I’d like to take my mind off my own, if that’s all right.”

An understandable attempt at a diversion, perhaps, though it certainly wasn’t Isabela’s favorite topic of discussion. It had been so many years Isabela could barely remember what her mother looked like, but feelings were not so easily forgotten, and trying to define the woman who birthed her dredged up a slew of emotions, like disturbing the mud at the bottom of a lake. But she would walk through it, for Hawke’s sake.

“My mother was a… complicated woman. To put it lightly. She regretted my existence and wasn’t shy about telling me as much. She had a one-night tryst with a man she didn’t even remember and got a lot more than she bargained for. 

“Most of my childhood was spent wandering around the coast of Rivain, begging, stealing, and conning. Some days she loved me, other days she hated me. I woke up every morning not knowing which side of her I was going to see. Sometimes, when we had food, she would cook for me and tell me all these stories from the village she was raised in. And we'd feel like a normal family. And then sometimes she’d beat me black and blue for not bringing in enough money or just for looking at her the wrong way. Or sometimes she’d get so drunk I’d have to roll her over so she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit. That's a lot of chaos and uncertainty for a little girl to deal with. 

“It was easier when I was younger. You don’t question things then. All that dysfunction was my normal. But I grew into a mouthy, headstrong young woman, and we started fighting. A lot. At this point we had settled in Llomerryn. She was doing fortune-telling, when she was sober enough for it—which wasn’t often—and I was… well, I was doing everything short of selling my body, let’s put it that way. But I probably wasn’t far from it. 

“She wasn’t happy with her life. Probably hadn’t been for a long time. I’ve told you how the Qunari conquered Rivain, right? Even though they were driven back to the northern parts in the Storm Age, the Qun still holds sway in much of the country. And even though Llomerryn has always claimed to be politically neutral, which is lovely in theory, in practice there’s no such thing. Qunari emissaries still came to the island, same as the Chantry, and if people happened to convert, well, that was their problem. My mother suddenly became enamored with the Qun, like it was supposed to save her from herself. 

“If she would have just fucked off to Par Vollen and left me alone, I would’ve been fine. But no one converts to the Qun without trying to take everyone else down with them. Our fights got worse. She would insult me for doing the things she taught me to do, I’d yell back at her, she’d throw something at my head, I’d run off for days at a time, then worry about her and come back. Repeat, repeat. One night, we fought so badly I’m surprised we both made it out alive. The next day, she sold me to Luis. That was the last time I saw her.”

Hawke gave a low whistle. “I had a feeling things weren’t exactly rosy, but that was… so much worse than I imagined. Do you ever think about what you would say to her if you saw her again?”

Isabela was a breath away from saying _no, she’s dead to me_ , but realized that was _probably_ a poor choice of words. “No. I refuse to dwell on ancient history. There is nothing she could say that would make what she did acceptable or even understandable. And there is nothing I could say that would make her love me the way a mother should. Sometimes it’s better to let things go. I choose my family now. And if I ever feel the need for mothering, I’ll go visit Aveline.”

“Tell me about it. I had to turn her away three times this week. And Varric and Merrill. Anders, too, though Bodahn handled it; I didn’t see him. Even Fenris sent flowers. Everyone’s been so worried about me,” Hawke said. She held both of Isabela’s hands in her own, but the clasp was loose, always offering Isabela the possibility of drawing back. With a sense of both comfort and dismay, Isabela realized she didn’t want to. Hawke continued: “Don’t get me wrong, it’s touching, but… a little overwhelming. It’s too hard to just—to be. To feel. To grieve. Frankly, I didn’t want them to see how fucked up I’ve been. So I just said I was fine until they gave up and left. Eventually, I couldn’t even do that, so I told Bodahn to not let anyone in. The only person I wanted to see was… was you.”

Isabela found she could not respond to that. _Call it a hunch_. How Varric was able to pry that from beneath Hawke’s mask of stone was a mystery. So Isabela kept her doubts, her denials, sealed within her lungs and instead intertwined her fingers with Hawke’s, hoping that was enough to say “thank you” without the weight of guilt to hold it down.

Hawke seemed to accept that, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned against Isabela’s chest. She was asleep within minutes.

“Hey,” Isabela said softly, giving Hawke a gentle nudge. “Let’s get you to bed; I won’t have you falling asleep on me, cute as it is.” Her back was already objecting against using a bookshelf as its support.

Mumbling something halfway between “okay” and “ugh,” Hawke let Isabela help her to her feet, unsteady as a newborn horse.

Isabela purposely stayed on Hawke’s left as they ascended the stairs to the bedroom, trying to serve as some sort of visual shield when they were forced to pass the closed door to Leandra’s room. It proved an unnecessary gesture; Hawke kept her eyes pointedly averted to the right until they were safe beyond the threshold of her own bedroom door.

Hawke’s room was spotless, the fire well-fed. Bodahn had been hard at work keeping things pristine and welcoming for whenever Hawke was ready. It was a touching gesture, Isabela had to admit.

Hawke flung her boots off and climbed into bed like she had never seen a more attractive place to lay down in her life. Isabela shook her head in amusement and, with some effort, tugged the sheets from under Hawke’s limp body before pulling them back over her, stopping short of tucking her in, because that would just be ridiculous.

And as soon as Isabela’s mind began to scream _run run run_ , Hawke asked if she would please stay. “Not all night. Just until I fall asleep.” And Isabela said yes. Of course she would. She held Hawke to her, curved their bodies together, tried to tie the snapped tightrope back into one piece so she could walk on it a little longer. Fuck Castillon. He could wait.

“I miss her,” Hawke admitted, voice tight, and she gripped Isabela’s arm around her like a lifeline, like she was in danger of drifting away if she let go. She took a long, deep breath and let it out in a controlled, halting shudder, too exhausted to give in to despair completely. She was tense, so tense, like the limbs on a drawn bow, ready to snap. 

Isabela allowed a few tears of her own to slip down her cheek, dampening the pillow—angry tears for the pointless cruelty of a madman, jealous tears for the mother she never had. But, more than anything, sympathetic tears for the broken woman in her arms.

“I know,” she said to the back of Hawke’s head, and she was willing to take that tension, that pain into her own body, because some callous god kept pouring grief into Hawke’s cup, not caring that it had long since overflowed.

Slowly, Hawke brought her knees down from her chest and unwound from the ball she had curled herself into. Their bodies fit together like a hand in a glove, each expansion of Isabela’s ribcage meeting with equal and opposite pressure from Hawke’s back. She touched her lips to the back of Hawke’s neck, right where her hair hit, unruly black swirls. She would stay. At least for a little while longer.

It was difficult, but Isabela forced herself to stay awake, even as Hawke drifted off to sleep, her breathing slow and peaceful, limbs slack. With all the delicate care she could muster, Isabela slipped her arm free of Hawke’s loose hold on it, easing toward the edge of the bed. Hawke rolled onto her back, still blissfully unconscious, a moment of freedom she had more than earned. Against her better judgement, in what she would later ascribe to a momentary fit of insanity, Isabela knelt down, swept Hawke’s hair out of the way, and kissed her forehead.

As she crept through the door to leave, unease settled cold and heavy in her gut. The winds were picking up, she could feel it, the hurricane inching closer, gathering speed and force as it spun. She had to flee, had to change course before it—or rather, she—hit the shore. But she was falling, oh was she falling, pitching herself down yet another flight of stairs. 

And through the tumbling and the bruises, a memory of her mother's voice, sharp and hard, was dredged up from somewhere deep within: “Stupid child. You never learn.”


	16. Act 2, Part 4: "Something Else"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tancred: "Something Else"  
>  _Saw you through the blue marine_  
>  _Pulled you in to sink down deep with me_  
>  _I'm in a place I should not be_  
>  _Are you a jewel?_  
>  _Am I a thief?_
> 
> This chapter references a one-shot I wrote called "Tea with Leandra", which you can find [here](https://tortuosity-writes.tumblr.com/post/183831218941/tea-with-leandra), if you're interested.

Isabela was blissfully immersed in the pleasant world of half-consciousness, that warm place between sleep and waking, when a furry, slobbering mass catapulted into her bed. She was likewise catapulted into full, heart-pounding consciousness before recognizing the beast invading her bed was, in fact, Brutus, and the woman doing a piss-poor job muffling her laughter in the doorway was, in fact, Hawke.

The morning gloom through the curtains was barely formed, more purple than orange. “Why are you waking me up at this unholy hour?” Isabela grumbled, forced right to the edge of the bed as Brutus decided he ought to flop down directly in the middle of it and flail about. “I’m not a fan of morning sex, and certainly not a fan of your dog watching.”

There came a _whump_ as Hawke dropped an empty backpack on the floor. Isabela noticed a similar pack already strapped to Hawke’s back, fully-loaded, and curiosity dueled irritation in her sleep-addled brain.

“Put on your best boots,” Hawke announced. “Merrill told me about a lake up in Sundermount, and if I have to spend one more minute in Kirkwall, I’m going to murder someone. Someone who doesn’t deserve it, anyway,” she was quick to amend, for Hawke did an awful lot of murdering for someone so respected.

An adventure into the mountains that also served as a massive elven graveyard? It was too good to pass up. “Well, that’ll be easy enough,” Isabela said, sitting up and attempting to push Brutus to the side—he grunted and refused to move from his spot in the middle of the bed. She sighed and abandoned her efforts. “I only have one pair of boots.”

Hawke stared at Isabela’s boots, tucked partially under the bed, crumpled into a heap. “Really? How can you only own one pair of boots?”

“You don’t understand. They’re—”

“ _Antivan leather!_ ” they both finished together before bursting into peals of laughter, Hawke forced to lean on the table to keep from collapsing. Even Brutus seemed amused, squinting up at Isabela, head upside-down, tongue lolling out the side of his cavernous mouth.

“All right, all right, I’ll get up.” She gave Brutus a few pats on the side. “But get your dog out of the bed. I’m naked and it’s weird.”

“You heard the captain, Brutus. Go outside and guard the door.” With a huff of what could be interpreted as annoyance, Brutus leaped out of the bed, nails clicking against the wood floor as he landed. He trotted into the hallway, out of sight.

Isabela sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “My bed smells like dog.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s smelled worse,” Hawke retorted, and they laughed again, because they both knew she was right.

“Rude. Come here,” Isabela said, beckoning with a finger, but Hawke had already slipped the pack from her shoulders and crossed the room in a few strides. All grace and power, she mounted Isabela, pushed her back into the bed with a fervent kiss, hands savoring unrestricted skin. Isabela couldn’t keep a moan from sliding across Hawke’s tongue, smoldering with need. Maybe she could relax her embargo on morning sex, just this once. 

“This,” Hawke murmured, her lips tracing the curve of Isabela’s neck, “is maybe defeating the purpose of getting an early start on the hike.” She pulled back and sat up, trailing a finger from the hollow of Isabela’s throat to her navel. “But you look so damn good, I can’t help it.”

Isabela laughed. “If you think I look that good first thing in the morning, I’m concerned for your mental well-being.”

Her expression softening, Hawke lifted her chin until she stared Isabela directly in the eyes. “You’re beautiful,” she said, full of tender earnesty, and Isabela’s stomach managed five somersaults and a backflip before she could think of a response.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she joked, but maybe some part of her hoped it wasn’t true, that perhaps that particular descriptor could be hers alone, more valuable and cherished than any jewel.

Hawke said nothing, merely offering a crooked smile in reply, then left the bed to retrieve her backpack.

\------

Summers in Kirkwall were startlingly close to being pleasant. It was always more hot and humid than Isabela expected it to be—exacerbating the suffocating effects of Lowtown’s chokedamp—and the threat of rain showers remained ever-present on the horizon, but it was no Rivain. The summers in her homeland could only be described as “distressing”—the summer air like hot soup, so heavy in the nose and lungs it was sometimes hard to breathe, like drowning on land. To add insult to injury, late summer brought hurricanes slamming into the coast, their destructive winds and rains far outweighing the respite they provided from stale, muggy air.

That sort of heinous weather was nowhere to be found as they reached the foot of Sundermount. The sky was slightly overcast with white, cottony clouds that did little to block the sun from igniting the stone faces of the Vinmarks into sparkling gold. And they did little to block the heat sizzling Isabela’s shoulders and turning the shirt and skin on her back into one sweaty symbiosis. Despite that mild discomfort, the air was clean, the birds were singing, and Isabela found herself in a rare state of mind: at peace. Brutus dashed around them, chasing butterflies and squirrels through thatches of grass and wildflowers, occasionally returning for a quick scratch behind the ears before bounding off again. 

And then there was Hawke. Always within arm’s reach, Hawke meandered beside her, never quite managing a straight line, a leaf carried by a breeze. Isabela couldn’t resist stealing glances when she could: watching Hawke pull in the sunlight, run the tips of her fingers across petals and stalks, kick stones. Her pace, her posture, her gait did not reveal any of the trauma she carried with her like the pack on her back. Hawke looked relaxed. Free. It was reassuring. She, more than anyone, deserved a break from her demons.

Hawke stooped down and snatched a white-petaled flower from near the ground. Stopping in front of Isabela, she tucked the stem behind Isabela’s ear with an almost bashful smile. “Lovely,” she said, appraising her decorative choice. “Mayberry flowers. I’m surprised to see them growing this far north. Oh, and fun fact: don’t eat the berries unless you need to vomit something up.”

Isabela secured the flower as best she could within strands of her hair. Hopefully it would stay. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I eat at the Hanged Man.” The path around them was studded with such flowers, and many more besides, none of which she knew. Living on boats for most of one’s adult life did not engender a great knowledge of plantlife. If pressed, she might be able to recognize a few Rivaini flowers, but they were big, lush, loud, nothing like the small, subtle blossoms in the south. It was a wonder, she thought, the differences presented by miles traveled. How many Rivaini would never get the chance to see these tiny, beautiful flowers? “How do you know what they are? Eat a lot of bad berries before?” she asked Hawke.

“All that time in the woods hunting for witches taught me something, I guess.” Hawke plucked a curly-petaled purple flower for adorning her own ear. “And Father had this big book with all these beautiful illustrations of Fereldan wildflowers. I think I flipped through it a thousand times growing up. Some of it must have gotten through this thick skull of mine.”

Isabela closed her eyes and tried to remember simpler, happier times when her mother was in a rare good mood and would bring her for walks in the lowlands. “I’m not much for botany, but we have these flowers in Rivain. Huge, like the size of both your hands spread out together. The prettiest shade of pink, too. Makes a good tea.”

“You’ll have to take me to see them sometime,” Hawke said offhandedly, turning away and brushing dusty yellow pollen from Brutus’s snout. 

Her step faltering slightly, Isabela considered the request. It wasn’t like she hadn’t, in more vulnerable moments, thought of taking Hawke traveling with her. Hawke had little seafaring experience, admittedly, but she was a quick learner, and her wanderlust was undeniable. And with most of her family gone in one way or another, Hawke had little tying her down to Kirkwall or Ferelden. But every time her mind got away from her, entertaining silly girlish fantasies of chasing horizons with Hawke beside her, Isabela remembered Dice and Bones and snuffed those thoughts out like a torch plunged into a barrel of water. So she said nothing, letting the idea float away into the clouds, a far safer place than in the steel trap of her mind.

When they entered the forest proper, following a narrow path tamped down by the feet of many travelers before them, the shade offered some relief from the oppressive summer sun. Every step brought a muffled crunch from twigs, leaves, and other detritus, flooding her sinuses with the rich scent of loam and moss and _life_ , a scent remarkably absent from an enormous city like Kirkwall. Kirkwall had life, certainly, but it was too close, too much, too many bodies in too little space, muddled. This was life undisturbed, life with room to grow. 

Hawke seemed to agree. “I need to get out of the city more often. I can’t believe how much better I feel breathing air that a million people haven’t already breathed before. Sometimes I think I should just be one of those hermits who lives alone in the woods.”

“You’re far too pretty for that,” Isabela said, laughing. “And you’d probably eat some weird mushrooms or get mauled by a bear. Though…” she paused to consider a previous conversation with Leandra, “I’ve heard you can fight off a bear with just a kitchen knife.”

“Oh no,” Hawke groaned, pressing her knuckles to her forehead. “Mother told you about that? I was eleven! It seemed like a great idea at the time.”

“Yes, she told me all about how you bravely defended your little girlfriend from the big mean bear. I should add, she trapped me and told told me this story while _you_ were conveniently out getting parchment, of all things.”

“Kattrin definitely wasn’t my girlfriend; I was just completely enamored with her. But don’t worry, I can fight off a bear for you, too, if you’re looking for that authentic Marian Hawke experience,” she said with a self-deprecating chuckle, patting the longsword strapped to her belt. It was a smaller and less intimidating weapon than her usual greatsword, but it was far less cumbersome to carry, and Isabela had no doubt Hawke was every bit as deadly as usual.

“Hey now, I’m no defenseless maiden needing to be rescued by my valiant princess. I bet I could kill a bear. Then skin it and make a rug.” She pondered that for a moment. “Have you ever had sex on a bearskin rug? I’ve always wanted to.”

Hawke threaded her arm through Isabela’s. “Oh, Isabela, never change,” she said, kissing her cheek.

Their journey to the mountain lake was, fortunately, uninterrupted by bears, outlaws, or reanimated corpses, a pleasant change of pace from their previous visits to Sundermount. As they rounded the bend, cresting the hill, the trees parted, revealing a glassy blue lake reflecting the surrounding mountains, beautiful and untouched. A few ducks paddled nearby, occasionally dunking their heads under the water to hunt for food. Isabela expected Brutus to dive right in, but instead he loped to the lake’s edge, lapped a few mouthfuls of water, then backed away like he expected the lake to spring up and attack him.

“My ferocious war hound is afraid of water,” Hawke explained, shrugging her pack off and setting it on the ground, along with her sword and its scabbard. “But lucky for you,” she said, bending over to unlace her boots, “I’m not.”

Isabela raised her eyebrows and slipped her own backpack off, daggers alongside it. “Are we skinny-dipping? Because I won’t say no to that.” Though really, she couldn’t think of any reason she would say no to a situation involving her and Hawke and nudity.

“I was just planning on getting my feet wet, but who knows. I might want more after that.” 

“That’s what they all say.”

The shore, if the miniscule stretch of land between the grass and water could be deemed as such, consisted entirely of small, round pebbles that dug uncomfortably into the bottoms of her feet. It wasn’t quite as nice as swathes of white sand, but it would do. The lake water swirling around her ankles was warm, warmer than the ocean ever seemed to be, and the earth beneath her feet eased into smoothed pebbles and sand, worn down by eons. No waves, of course, but she found she didn’t miss the turbulence. She dipped her fingers into the surface, let the ripples break the reflected sunlight into infinite fractals. She took a deep breath, like it was the first time her lungs had ever tasted air. It was beautiful. Everything was beautiful.

Hawke sloshed in behind her, pants rolled up to her knees. Brutus kept a careful watch along the shoreline, suspicious of the evil water his master was so foolishly wading into. She wrapped her arms around Isabela’s waist from behind, then bent slightly to kiss the top of her ear.

“This is nice,” she said, the understatement of the Age. “I’ll have to thank Merrill for telling me about it.”

“Do you suppose she’s out in the trees over there, spying on us? Her and all the Dalish, waiting to see if we get naked.” Isabela peered into the treeline, searching for voyeuristic eyes. Well, let them look. If their Creators saw fit to grant her this body, she was going to use it to its fullest, most enjoyable potential.

“Why? Do you want to give them a show?” Hawke said, the barest edge of excitement coloring her voice. She wove her fingers through Isabela’s hair and gently pulled, using the leverage to give her lips access to Isabela’s neck, just under the corner of her jaw. That sensation, combined with the discovery of Hawke’s potential interest in exhibitionism, instantly lit a fire of arousal and sent her mind careening. Isabela had never fucked anyone in a lake before, but there was no time like the present, and no one better to help check that experience off her list.

Isabela leaned into Hawke’s embrace, water flooding under her toes. “I wouldn’t say no. Actually, knowing me, I would just say ‘yes.’ A lot.”

“You _are_ quite verbose in bed, I’ve noticed.”

“I am, and you love it.” She tilted her head back, a pantomime of ecstasy, and howled, “ _Yes_ , Hawke, fuck me! Oh yes, _harder!_ ” The flock of ducks nearby took off with a chorus of perturbed quacks.

She had just enough time to see Hawke’s face go scarlet before her giggling was interrupted by a splash of water nailing her across the chest. The initial shock wore off quickly enough, and Isabela countered with her own handful of lake, scoring a direct hit to Hawke’s stomach and earning a shriek of laughter. 

“You,” Hawke said between sputters, dodging a subsequent splash, “are terrible!”

Isabela’s taunting would not be deterred. “Oh, Hawke, you get me _so_ wet!” Isabela’s last word was cut short as a mighty wave slapped her in the face. 

Oh, that did it, she thought, spitting out a mouthful of lake water. Though the water around her knees pulled at her legs, dragging her movements down, she managed to lunge at Hawke and grab her around the hips, sending them both plunging into the lake. Through the chaos, she caught glimpses of Brutus dashing back and forth along the shoreline, barking frantically, torn between wanting to defend Hawke from this aquatic assault and his mortal fear of getting wet.

“Fat lot of help you were, Brutus,” Hawke scolded him when they finally slogged back to the grass, water dripping from every pore. She pushed the hair plastered to her forehead out of the way, flicking the excess droplets from her hands at Brutus, who shied like a startled horse and barked indignantly. 

Isabela wrung out her bandana and shook her head like a wet dog. “Now you see where his loyalties lie. Can’t even protect his master from a vicious pirate hag.”

Hawke turned, and her gaze immediately dropped. “You, uh… might want to fix your shirt,” she said with a snicker.

Isabela glanced down to see _someone_ had managed to yank her blouse down during the tussle. She sighed. “Can’t keep these tits contained no matter how hard I try,” she said, then shrugged and pulled the shirt off over her head. “Might as well leave them out. No point in wearing wet clothes.”

“At least the sun’s out,” Hawke said, following suit with her own shirt. “There’s a blanket in my pack. Could you grab it? I’ll hang everything up to dry.”

The rest of their clothes soon followed, and if the Dalish weren’t staring before, they certainly had something to look at now. Handing off the soaked garb to Hawke, Isabela went to dig through her overstuffed backpack. She found the blanket right away, but couldn’t help but explore further: some food (including _pickled eggs?_ ), some candles, bandages, a knife (Hawke was learning!), flint and steel for starting fires, eating utensils and two mugs, and, at the very bottom, tied with a wide, red strip of fabric… _The Adventures of Madeline Gladstone_.

She jumped as Hawke suddenly appeared next to her. “Brutus found that outside my house a few months ago. Where do you suppose it came from?” When Isabela turned to look, Hawke’s smile gave her away. Not much of a mystery, it seemed.

Isabela pulled the book from the pack with a degree of reverence generally reserved for religious relics. Thankfully, it didn’t look any worse for wear, despite being left outside for who knows how long and carried in a dog’s mouth.

“I was going to give it to you after… after Leandra passed,” she admitted quietly. “But I wasn’t sure it was… well, appropriate.”

Hawke abruptly threw her arms around her, skin still damp from the lake. “That is too adorable,” she said, and when she pulled back, Isabela could see tears sparkling in Hawke’s eyes, a contrast to her beaming smile. Hawke cleared her throat, dashing those glimmers away, and stood back up, taking the blanket with her. “Come on,” she said, and shook the blanket out flat, laying it in an especially sunny spot on the grass.

Untying the book, Isabela placed the strip of fabric in her own pack, then flopped down on her stomach next to Hawke, soaking in every bit of sunlight she could, blasting away the lingering chill from the lake. It was interesting, she thought, being out in the middle of nowhere without a damn thing on. Rather exciting. A little naughty. Something she would have to do more often.

“You know, I _was_ feeling a little on the pale side,” Hawke said, stretching out lazily, glowing in the sun, tapping Brutus with her toes. “I could use an all-over tan.”

Isabela laughed. “You are going to be pink as a cooked shrimp in twenty minutes, tops. The Maker or whoever it was didn’t design your people for nude sunbathing.”

“Shut up and enjoy the view,” Hawke teased—a rather redundant command, given Isabela had already _been_ enjoying the view since the moment Hawke’s shirt came off. “And tell me about this book.”

“Yes, let me talk all about my favorite children’s book when there is a beautiful naked woman next to me. _That_ is surely not a recipe for conflicting feelings, oh no.” But she went along with it, anyway, cracking open the book to the first illustration of Madeline and Theodore trundling up a grassy hill. Just looking at it made her heart swell with joy. “Have you heard of it before?”

Hawke rolled over so she could see. “I have. The author is from Lothering. Bit of a celebrity. I’ve always wanted to read it, but I never got around to it.”

“Felicity Tenenbaum is from Lothering? I’m sleeping with a woman who lived in the same muddy field as Felicity Tenenbaum?” She chuckled as Hawke elbowed her. “Jokes aside, this book was one of the first I learned to read. My tutor gave it to me. I must have read it a hundred times when I was… when I was in Antiva,” she finished, letting the spaces between the words speak for themselves.

Hawke seemed to understand, giving Isabela’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Do you want to read the first chapter?” she asked.

“I could probably do it with my eyes closed,” Isabela said, turning the page to show the first chapter heading. Trapped in a void between Sundermount and Antiva, she ran her fingers over the words. It was time to make new memories, she decided. With any luck, maybe they could override the old ones, crowd them out, suffocate them. She wasn’t fifteen anymore. “Madeline,” she began, banishing those thoughts from another world, another time, “was like any other eleven year-old girl…”

She made it through the first chapter and partway through the second before she noticed Hawke had fallen asleep, head resting on her forearms. Turning over onto her back, Isabela craned her neck to see Brutus knocked out, too, snoring softly. Well, so much for literature. But she couldn’t be annoyed. She found she couldn’t be anything other than… happy. That’s what it was. She was here. She was present. For all her talk of never living in the past, the importance of moving on, all that bullshit she was so quick to spout to everyone else—she was never any good at it. It was all so much easier to say than to do. Her past clung to her like spiderwebs, informing every decision, conceiving every insecurity.

But she was not in Antiva or Rivain, or a boat or a prison cell. She was here, in this infinitesimal part of the cosmos, on a blanket in the grass in the sun. There were no Qunari, no Castillon, no Raiders. There was only a dog and a woman. A woman she cared for. A woman who, for whatever reason, cared for her. And that was all there was, and maybe, in this moment, that was all she needed.


	17. Act 2, Part 5: "Dust to Dust"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Civil Wars: "Dust to Dust"  
>  _All your acting, your thin disguise_  
>  _All your perfectly delivered lines_  
>  _They don't fool me_  
>  _You've been lonely_  
>  _Too long_

Isabela was not a subtle woman. Her mother always told her she came out of the womb screaming and ready to fight, and she hadn’t stopped since. If she liked you, you knew it. If she didn’t like you, you _really_ knew it. Sure, she could be charming if she wanted, if it was an easier route than picking a fight, but it was exhausting in its own way, trying to pick out the right thing to say amongst a sea of wrong things. Sometimes one had to break a few eggs to make an omelette. Or a few noses. Whichever.

But Aveline, _Aveline_ made Isabela feel sly. Aveline was as subtle as a brick to the face. So when she came strolling into the Hanged Man, all but whistling, Isabela knew she was in trouble, because Aveline did not come to the bar for shits and giggles. Oh, but Aveline was certainly making an effort to go through the correct motions: instead of making a beeline to Isabela’s corner, she meandered about the bar, saying hello to Corff and Norah, tutting over one of her guards chasing an afternoon hangover with more ale, ordering a drink of her own. She even wasted some time admiring the artwork on the walls, if one was feeling charitable enough to call it such, like she was at a gallery instead of a tavern. But her eyes kept flicking over to where Isabela sat, and it was only a matter of time before Aveline wandered over.

“Isabela!” she said, as if it was a surprise. “Fancy meeting you here.”

She really thought she was being clever, didn’t she? “Aveline, I live here.”

“Right.” Aveline plunked down on the vacant stool neighboring Isabela’s. She played with the handle on her cup, then drummed her fingers on the bartop, like she didn’t know what to do with her hands when they weren’t busy holding a sword and shield.

Isabela was not in the mood for games. If she was going to get arrested again, might as well get it out of the way. “Why are you here?” she asked, leaning heavily on her elbows, squared against the bar.

“Do I need a reason besides wanting to have a drink with a friend?” Aveline retorted, like a sugar-coated hammer. 

“Uh huh. So now I’m your friend. Let’s quit with the niceties, shall we? No, I don’t know who stole the golden statuette of Andraste from the Chantry.” It wasn’t like the Chantry was lacking for Andraste statues. And it wasn’t even real gold. Kind of a disappointment, really.

Aveline blinked. “I… wasn’t here about that. Though,” she narrowed her eyes, “we _should_ discuss that information later. No, I—” she paused to take a drink, as though to gather her thoughts. “I wanted to talk about you and Hawke.”

Oh. Well. Admitting to stealing the statue and getting arrested was quickly becoming an attractive option. 

When Isabela didn’t respond, Aveline continued, fumbling for words: “So. Hawke. And you. You and Hawke.”

“Yes?” Isabela sighed. This would not be a pleasant conversation; she knew that already.

“Together.”

“In a sense, yes. And your point is…?” If _Aveline_ , of all people, had figured it out, the situation was even more dire than Isabela originally assumed. She considered calling Norah over for a shot of whiskey. Or five.

“In a sense?”

“In the sense that we’re friends who fuck each other. Frequently. Sometimes multiple times a day. We’re very good at it. Fucking, that is.” Isabela hoped her increasing crassness would be enough to dissuade Aveline from continuing this inane conversation.

Though Aveline’s complexion steadily began to resemble a ripe tomato, she would not be deterred. “You can be as vulgar as you want, but I think there’s more to it than that. And I don’t think you need to be embarrassed about it,” she was quick to add, as though Isabela was in need of reassurance. “It’s good to see Hawke happy.” Once again met with silence, she rambled on, shifting from sweet to caustic: “Though I’m not sure I know why, in a city so full of people, she decided _you_ were her best option for love, but I suppose the heart does things the head can’t understand.”

There it was. That word. That fucking word. An instant revulsion; it made her skin crawl. There was not much else in the world that triggered her flight reflex quite like the word “love.” Poor Aveline had no idea the tripwire she was stumbling over.

“It’s not anything serious,” Isabela forced out through gritted teeth. “And if you’re going to pull that ‘if you hurt her I’ll cut you in half’ bullshit, let’s get our blades out and get it over with.”

Aveline frowned, confused, suspicious, her tendencies as a guard coming so easily to bear. “Explain,” she said, and it came close to being a command, but it was tempered. She was willing to hear Isabela out, and, somehow, that made it worse.

“It’s not love. It’s not some starry-eyed, fairytale romance women like you get all weak-kneed over. It’s not anything. And if Hawke thinks it’s something more than what it is… well, she’s wrong. And she’s going to get hurt.” Like a portcullis slamming shut. That was it, end of story. Isabela refused to entertain any other possibility.

“I may not be the best at reading people, but I’ve seen the way she looks at you. It’s not nothing.” Isabela could feel Aveline staring into the side of her head. “You were so eager to get me and Donnic together. You can’t seem to keep your nose out of anyone’s romantic business. Yet here you are being so tight-lipped about your own. Why?”

“Because, Aveline,” Isabela spat each word out like a curse, “there _is_ no ‘romantic business.’ Maybe you can’t understand it, but there’s a difference between sex and love. As I have mentioned _many_ times, I only participate in the former of those things. I enjoy what I have with Hawke, but there is a big, clear line that I am not interested in crossing, with her or anyone.”

“You honestly believe that, don’t you?” Aveline said without mockery, overflowing with pity instead. It was infuriating. “Would you even know what love was if you saw it?”

Isabela clutched the clay tumbler so fiercely she was sure her fingerprints would be left behind. “I am well aware of what love is. Which is why I avoid it.” Love was picnics and sunshine, private jokes and laughter. It was seeing them in every brushstroke of a painting and every word in a poem, hearing them in every note of a song. It was a clear sky with the wind blowing just right. It was a bouquet of roses and a tiny gold ring under an olive tree. It was Aveline’s sword shoved through her husband’s chest. It was ashes floating out to sea. It was a red tally mark across Isabela’s ribs. She knew the truth, the whole of it, the parts the storytellers chose to ignore. If they acknowledged the pain inherent in love at all, they would claim it was pain shared, a distribution making it easier to bear. But it wasn’t. It was pain multiplied, it was worry, it was fear. It was a burden, and she would not carry it.

Turning away, Aveline ran her thumb over the rough surface of her mug, lost in thought. “You know,” she began, her voice reaching out to somewhere far away, “I felt the same way after Wesley died. Never in my life had I felt a pain so terrible. I swore I would not allow myself to love again, because this world can be so cruel, and you never know when the people you care about will be taken from you. I didn’t think I could stand going through something like that ever again. I thought if I could just throw myself into work hard enough, I wouldn’t have time to think about anything else. And, for a little while, it worked. I had the guard and my friends to protect. But...” The corners of her lips turned up in a somber smile. “There are some things in life you have no control over, no matter how much you wish you did. I think love is one of those things.”

Control. That was really what it was about, wasn’t it. Isabela had spent so much of her life chafing against the bonds conspiring to hold her, she knew no other way to live. On the surface, to outside eyes, her life looked wild and carefree, but every experience, every moment was carefully curated, and always, always with an escape route built in. It was not something Aveline could ever understand. Aveline thrived as a servant to rules and expectations. The soldier, the Guard-Captain, the good law-abiding citizen. But that was her choice—she had never been someone else’s property. 

“We’re different people,” Isabela stated, as though it wasn’t blatantly obvious. “I am not interested in anything love has to offer.”

“Does Hawke know that?”

Isabela chose to face Aveline then, to allow the full impact of her answer to cross the distance between them: “Yes. She knows.” It was the one thing Isabela had always been honest about. And, until this afternoon, she assumed Hawke at least accepted this critical distinction, even if she might not completely understand it. Isabela cursed her own complacency. How could she be so blind?

Aveline took a drink, set her pint down, opened her mouth as if to speak, then reconsidered and had another drink. “This isn’t really the way I pictured this conversation going,” she admitted at last.

“And what way was that, exactly?”

“After all the grief you gave me over Donnic, I was hoping to, I don’t know... get some retribution. Maybe tease _you_ a little, for a change?” She looked so crestfallen it was hard for Isabela to believe this was the same Aveline who threatened her with incarceration on a near daily basis. “But it seems I’ve misinterpreted things. As usual.”

“Well, for what it's worth, it sounds like you’re not the only one.” Isabela watched the people around the bar, each an encapsulation, each driven by their own motivations, culminations of their countless individual choices. And she was disconnected, a foreigner, a wolf without a pack. Suddenly, she felt so terribly lonely. “Look,” she sighed, turning to Aveline once more, “I’m glad Hawke is happy. If she’s happy because of me, I won’t be upset about it. But we are not a couple, or in love, or any other kind of fantasy you want to concoct. Now, can we please just stick to insulting each other? That is far more comfortable territory.”

“All right. I’m glad we could clear things up, anyway.” Aveline allowed a smile to slip in. “You thieving, flea-ridden poxy tart.”

There she was. Good old reliable Aveline. “Mallet-chinned, brown-nosing stick-in-the-mud,” Isabela shot back, with all the affection she could muster.

Aveline chugged down the rest of her ale like a champ; it was rather impressive. Sliding off the stool, she almost looked like she wanted to put a hand on Isabela’s shoulder, but she held off and let her arm fall back to her side. “I’ll be back to talk about that missing statue, so don’t think you’re off the hook,” she warned. As she started to leave, she seemed to remember something and spun back around, her face a stormcloud. “Oh, and Isabela? If you hurt her…” she allowed the threat to linger in the air for a few beats, “getting cut in half will be the least of your worries.”

\------

A few hours later, when the moon hung high over Kirkwall’s harbor, Hawke arrived to the Hanged Man. And there was that word, that dreaded word, spelled out so clearly in her smile and the sparkle in her eyes as she sidled around the bar and greeted Isabela with a kiss. _I’ve seen the way she looks at you_. Why didn’t she notice it before? Was she truly so deep in denial, so assured her lines in the sand were higher than castle walls? But the tide was coming in and those lines were swiftly being washed away. She needed to redraw them. Deeper this time.

“Hey,” she said, forcing her tone into something resembling composure, despite the tension gripping her head and neck in a vice, despite the ache in her chest threatening to crush her lungs. She took her heart, that traitorous organ, and sealed it away in a vault of stone. Aveline’s vengeance could be dealt with later. “Let’s go upstairs.”


	18. Act 2, Part 6: "You Should Know"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Banks: "You Should Know Where I'm Coming From"
> 
> _What if I said I would break your heart?_  
>  _What if I said I have problems that made me mean?_  
>  _What if I knew I would just rip your mind apart?_  
>  _Would you let me out?_
> 
> Takes place directly after the previous chapter

Contrary to popular belief, Varric didn’t particularly enjoy eavesdropping. It was occasionally a useful way to gain information—his currency of choice—but it was far too passive. There was no way to steer the conversation, to manipulate the participants into revealing details they might not otherwise. There was no artistry to it. Frankly, it felt downright _lazy_.

But there was no way he was involving himself in the argument next door, as uncomfortable as it was to hear his friends quarrel. He had to admit, it was a bit strange, being an outside witness to whatever was developing between Hawke and Isabela. He’d heard all the sex, of course, whether he wanted to or not. They weren’t exactly quiet about it, especially Isabela—he had a suspicion she _wanted_ everyone at the Hanged Man to know exactly what went on behind her door. It was a little awkward, maybe, but it didn’t bother him. No, what worried him were the other things he heard: long, intense talks into the quiet hours of the morning, random bursts of shared laughter, the way Hawke said “goodbye” when she left for the night, like she wanted nothing more than to hear Isabela say: “No, stay.” 

Isabela’s voice came hard and cold as glass through his wall: “Here’s some advice for future reference: when a woman tells you she’s bad news, believe her.” 

Ouch.

Hawke responded, indignant, tremulous, a half-octave above her usual pitch: “So, what, I’m just supposed to _not_ feel anything?”

He could understand Hawke’s predicament. Isabela _did_ have a particular allure, it was undeniable. But she was the flame and Hawke was the moth. Though, Varric supposed, some people needed to get burned before they understood not to play with fire. He had told Hawke this, pulled her aside as soon as he saw those big blue eyes of hers staring dopily at the back of Isabela’s head. Andraste’s tits, she was a _pirate!_ Not exactly a profession known for its trustworthiness. As soon as she found her relic, she would be out of Kirkwall like a tumbleweed in a dust storm, and, if his intuition was correct (and it usually was), the Arishok and his men would be after her not a second later. If they didn’t destroy Kirkwall, first, that is.

But Hawke blew him off, like he knew she would. “It’s nothing, Varric,” she had said. “Isabela and I are just having some fun. Maker knows we could use some, the way things have been lately.” Right. Just some fun. Hence the yelling about feelings and boundaries and emotional bullshit.

Isabela again, acerbic: “Well, it’s a bit late for that, don’t you think? I shouldn’t have to find out you have feelings for me from fucking _Aveline!”_

Varric winced. From Aveline? That explained the anger. Really, he could’ve told Isabela himself, if it was that important. But that was a crucial difference between him and Aveline: tact.

Maybe he wasn’t one to talk. He had certainly made his share of mistakes when it came to women. But this was Hawke. Hadn’t she already gone through enough heartbreak? And he could admit a grudging concern for Isabela, too. She was, after all, his friend, and though she never divulged all the details, he knew she had been through… well, she had been through some real shit, he knew that much. And she probably had justification to keep her relationships sequestered to the physical realm only. Too bad things were never that simple.

Hawke wouldn’t be cowed: “You’re a bloody hypocrite, you know that, right? You can tell Anders and everyone else that you have no regrets and the past is past, but you’re so full of shit. You made a mistake years ago and now you can’t move past it. When are you going to forgive yourself? You’re never going to heal if you keep beating yourself up over it.”

Oh, that was an interesting tidbit. Until that point, he had assumed Isabela willingly made her mistakes in the mindless pursuit of “fun” then tossed them aside like a child throws away toys they’ve grown bored of. But this seemed to indicate there was more to her than initial reports suggested. It made sense. Everyone had their stories, their tragedies. The trick was getting them to tell the tales.

Isabela’s response was so quiet, so broken, Varric almost didn’t catch it. And he wasn’t about to press his ear to the wall; that would just be tasteless.

“Hawke. Listen to me. I can’t give you what you want.”

\-------

Hawke stood behind the table, like she required a physical separation to make sense of Isabela’s request for an emotional one. “What makes you think you know what I want?” she asked, her earlier passion gone, angry fire burning out as quickly as it had flared to life, leaving weary embers to take its place.

Isabela knew what Hawke wanted, loud and clear. It was what everyone wanted, even her, if she was being honest with herself. Security, trust, loyalty. Love. More than a warm body. Infinitely more than nothing, which was all Isabela had to offer.

“Look, I’m never going to be the woman who stays for breakfast or who, I don’t know,” she raked her fingers through her hair, “reads romantic poetry to you in your bed or something. That’s not me. Never has been, never will.”

“I knew this was going to happen,” Hawke muttered, exasperated—with herself or Isabela or maybe both, it was hard to tell. 

“And yet you did it anyway,” Isabela countered sharply, too irritated to bother smoothing away the rough edges. This could have been easy. This could have been simple. 

“Why do you think I held off from sleeping with you for so long? You think I didn’t want to? Maker, I spent so much time and money at the Rose just trying to take the edge off.” Hawke laughed, but the sound was devoid of cheer, and Isabela remembered “Marian H.” scrawled over and over in black ink. “And you know why? Because I knew, I _knew_ the moment I gave in, I was going to fall for you.” Hawke’s palms hit the table hard enough to make the silver candle-holder rattle against its tray. “Dammit.” Her voice grew tight, wavering, as she leaned against the table and turned her head away, ashamed. “And now I’m crying. Great. Wonderful.”

Isabela ignored the twisting feeling in her gut and the rush of sympathetic tingling behind her eyes. She would not be swayed by a few tears. This was for Hawke’s own good; she had to make her understand.

“I’ve been upfront about who I am and what I want since the beginning. You can’t change people. You certainly can’t change me, anyway.” Many had tried. All had failed. Isabela was an immutable mess.

“So you’re not even willing to try? How do you know it won’t work?” Hawke asked, directing the question to the chair beside her instead of the woman in front of her as she wiped her unbidden tears away. 

_It won’t work._ What did Hawke mean by “it?” The possibilities slid inexorably through Isabela’s brain like raindrops on glass, staining every place they touched. “Because, I—” Isabela stopped pacing and sank down onto the mattress, empty, staring at a split cracking one of the floorboards apart. Here it goes, she thought, and words began to break free from her mouth’s prison before she had time to reinforce the locks: “Because I care about you. And I don’t know why, maybe it’s self-sabotage like you say, maybe it’s something else, but… bad things happen to the people I care about. It’s always been that way. And I don't want you caught in the crossfire.”

“You don’t have to save me from yourself. Let me make my own decisions,” Hawke pleaded, because she never was any good at listening or avoiding the need to learn things the hard way, and perhaps those were things they had in common.

“You are—” _beautiful, foolish, the most fascinating, frustrating person I’ve ever met_ “—too damn stubborn for your own good.” Desperation began to grip her throat. Why did this have to be so hard? “I’m going to leave! You know that, right? As soon as I get a ship, I’m gone,” she insisted, wildly gesturing to somewhere leagues away: Rivain, Antiva, the bloody Anderfels; it didn’t matter. “And you’ll be left heartbroken and crying on the dock.” She let her hands fall to her lap, shoulders rounding forward, helpless. “It's not anything personal. It's just… it’s just who I am.”

“I don’t want to hold you down,” Hawke said, and Isabela wasn’t sure which of them she was trying harder to convince. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You deserve someone who can love you completely, without reservations. Someone who treats you like a queen. Someone you can count on. You deserve so much better than what this world has given you.” And she meant it, every word, with every fiber of her being. And, just as fully, she hated that whoever brought her into existence did not see fit to bestow those traits in her, did not see fit to give her a heart that healed whole instead of scarred.

“So do you.”

Isabela rejected it like a gut full of deathroot, but she could not verbalize her dissent. She was fluent in three languages, could get around in several more, had been over and around and under Thedas, yet she could not comprehend love. Being loved. Love’s lexicon, its syntax, its semantics were impossible for her to grasp. 

She wanted nothing more than to pull Hawke into bed with her, let her hands say what her words could not, because sex was safe, straightforward, uncomplicated in all the ways Hawke was not. But things were bleeding together in ways she didn’t anticipate, ways she couldn’t control, so she stayed sitting, elbows on her knees, fingers steepled together over her mouth.

Hawke took a step toward the door; Isabela watched her boots. “I should probably get going,” Hawke said. “I have to think about… things.”

She wanted to be selfish. She wanted things to go back to how they were at the start, when she was stupid enough to believe this could work. She wanted to say “stay.” Instead, Isabela said: “That’s fine. Take as much time as you need.”

And then Hawke was gone.

“Fuck.” Her hastily erected walls collapsed, hot tears overflowing the confines of her eyelids and running through her fingers. She had to do it. She had to. It hurt terribly, this cauterization, but it was a necessary pain to prevent bleeding out. Hawke would never know the kindness done to her today, but Isabela saw the sole future path for them, saw Hawke retreading the same ground, boots matching the footprints of the kind man from Starkhaven, lockstep. It would end the same way. 

She wasn’t sure when she drifted off to sleep, so exhausted from fighting she couldn’t keep her eyes open. Frantic pounding on her door jolted her awake. Someone called her name, someone that sounded like a young girl. 

Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw Amelie outside her room, breathless and covered in blood, a recent cut above her eye crusted with dark rust.

Amelie planted her hands on her knees and sucked in air like she had sprinted all the way across town. “Isabela, I’ve got—”

“What happened? What did you do?” Isabela interrupted, fear blossoming icy cold in her chest. She checked the hall for pursuers then pulled Amelie into her room, closing the door behind them. 

“A loose end I had to tie up,” Amelie said, trying to catch her breath, waving away Isabela’s concern with all the nonchalant arrogance possessed by a child who has seen too much too young. She patted the dagger cinched to her hip, and Isabela didn’t want to think about where she got that, didn’t want to think about how she knew what loose ends were and how to tie them up, didn’t want to think about this sweet girl becoming yet another casualty in her storm’s wake. Amelie stood straight, drew herself up to her full height, the peak of her messy blonde hair barely reaching Isabela’s shoulders. “Wall-Eyed Sam’s got your book. He’s been all over the markets trying to find a buyer, but he’s finally hooked up with some Tevinters for a real fat slice. The deal’s going down tomorrow night, at the foundry in Lowtown. I ran here as fast as I could, I swear.”

Sam. It made sense. He used to run with Martin, she recalled, and went astray when Martin gave up the raider life after Ianto made a power grab. Which meant the Armada was involved. Which meant…

“Amelie,” she said, gripping the elf by the shoulders. She should be calm, should try to keep her voice and hands from shaking, but there was a mutual fear sparking in Amelie’s eyes now, and maybe that fear could keep her alive. “I need you to find somewhere safe and lay low for a while. Do _not_ go digging for more leads, no matter what happens. Please.”

“It’s the Raiders, isn’t it?” Amelie asked quietly, with great gravity, as though she now understood the depth of the forces involved.

“Yes, little dove, it is.” Isabela fetched a gold coin from her pocket, pressed it into Amelie’s palm, watched her eyes grow wide as saucers. It wasn’t ideal, giving her such a lump sum, but Amelie had earned it, and a single coin was easier to hide than a pile of silver, and Isabela wasn’t sure she would ever see her again to spread the payments out. With a sinking feeling, she realized it was better this way. Her influence was poisonous to someone so impressionable.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Amelie wrapped her arms around her, giving Isabela the fiercest embrace she could manage with her scrawny limbs, and Isabela accepted it, returned it, because maybe that was what Naishe needed when she was twelve and lost.

“I won’t see you again,” Amelie said, masking a sniffle, a statement rather than a question—for she was smart enough to know the trail she found would take Isabela far, far away from Kirkwall when all was said and done. 

Isabela thought of lying, telling Amelie she would be back. She even thought, for a brief, crazed moment, of taking Amelie with her. But no. Isabela respected her far too much to lie to her, far too much to draw this girl into her maelstrom.

“No, I don’t think so,” she sighed. “So I want you to be good, and I want you to be strong. I’ll send you a letter when I get to where I’m going.”

Amelie pulled back, set her jaw to keep her lower lip from trembling. “Deal. But you gotta kill some raider bastards for me, okay?” she said, a toothy grin hiding the shimmer in her eyes.

“Language,” Isabela reminded uselessly, unable to resist giving a small smile of her own. “I’ll miss you,” she said suddenly. It was unlike her to express a thing like that, but she needed to say it, and Amelie needed to hear it.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll miss you, too,” Amelie mumbled, a blush coloring her cheeks, embarrassed by the unusual display of affection. “I’m gonna head back to Darktown. And don’t worry, I’ll stay out of trouble,” she added.

They said their goodbyes, Amelie turned the corner, and Isabela worried.

After a few moments of thinking and breathing and desperately trying to settle the chaos in her head, Isabela returned to her room. Pulling open a drawer, she withdrew a neatly folded sheet of parchment. It had arrived at the bar for her just that morning. No salutation, no signature, only a single sentence written with exquisite, educated penmanship. A sentence that filled her entire body with dread, written by a man she knew all too well. 

Holding the letter between her fingertips, gently so as not to wrinkle it, she walked to the table with its candle still burning hungrily. She let the corner of the paper dip into the flame, watched as the fire licked up the sides, let it nearly singe her fingers before she let go, and the ashes fell into the tray below. She took a deep breath and steeled her will, called on the same courage she used to sail into the storm to steady her heart. Perhaps she could convince Hawke to do her one last favor. One way or another, it would all come to an end tomorrow.

_The Armada does not forget._


	19. Act 2, Part 7: "Hurricane"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fleurie: "Hurricane"  
>  _Seven times it came when you were not awake_  
>  _Seven times the flame, too much to take_  
>  _The sky burns red against your skin_  
>  _The world we know turns in the wind_  
>  _Watch it go, watch it go, we stay the same_  
>  _And I don't know, I don't know how it can change_  
>  _It's all we know, all we know, the hurricane_
> 
> I'm going to break form and gently suggest giving the above song a listen, since its structure and tempo influenced this chapter a great deal.
> 
> Takes place at the very end of Act 2

_Zu ekhaimmiri ize._

She has one pack, and that will have to do. 

_It was stuffed full the first time she left, only a few days before, the Tome of Koslun nestled in her clothes. It was heavier than she remembered, in a way beyond the physical. Heavy with meaning, infused by all the different hands that held it. A book, a holy relic, an expensive trinket, a piece of history, her salvation. It jabbed her in the back as she rode east on her stolen horse, an accusation, poetic justice. Traitor, traitor, traitor, it said with every hit. The penalty for betraying the Qun was death. The penalty for betraying her friends, though, was crushing guilt, birthing a conscience from its torment, a rose from mud._

_Don’t look back, never look back. But she did, didn’t she? She looked back and saw the smoke curling into the sky, embracing the clouds like a lover. And maybe it was a trick of her remorseful imagination, or perhaps the wind was blowing just right, but she swore she could smell it: burning flesh, sweet and acrid._

_She turned around._

So many sentimental things cluttering her shelves. When did she buy them? Or were they all gifts? It’s difficult to remember, but the memories do come back eventually, like pins stabbing into her brain. Maps. From Merrill. Ironic, considering the elf’s penchant for getting lost. “They’re so pretty, and I know you like pretty things,” she had said. And they are pretty. A slim book of poems. Varric. “I’ve seen you reading at the bar. Maybe you’ll like this one,” he had said. And she does. Earrings, gold with grinning skulls. Surprisingly, Fenris. “Thought of you when I saw them,” he had said. And they are perfect.

A ship in a bottle…

_She thought of Hawke the entire way back to Kirkwall. She thought of Hawke, reading the letter pinned to Sam’s corpse. She thought of Hawke, confused, furious, resigned. She thought of Hawke, burning, bleeding, dying._

She shoves them into her pack. She shouldn’t; she should just leave them behind to collect dust, donate them to the next occupant of this room, but she can’t. Her hands shake.

There is a voice behind her: “You’re leaving again?” Varric. Why is he here? He should be with Hawke. They should all be with Hawke. He is quiet, calm. She hates it. He should be angry. She wants him to be angry. But he knows her, and he is no longer surprised by her dissonant behavior.

“I never should have come back in the first place.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. She was safe, she was _free_. Who escapes a nightmare only to turn around and walk back into it, willingly? 

_Finding Hawke wasn’t a challenge. She needed only to follow the trail of dead Qunari. There were so many, littering the ground like driftwood on a beach, fuel for the flames roaring through the city. This was the truth they wanted to deliver to the unenlightened masses. Convert or perish. Was this what her homeland looked like in the Steel Age?_

_The tumult unleashed by the Qunari served as her shadows as she slipped through Kirkwall unseen. What was the catalyst, the spark lighting the fuse? Did they know about the Tome? She had left no witnesses alive; how could they? But Hawke had never been shy in informing the Arishok about the injustices done to his people. Maybe… no. No. She dashed that thought from her head before it poisoned her. Hawke wouldn’t do that to her._

She doesn’t want to look at him, but he walks around to the other side of the bed, forcing himself into her field of view. “But you did come back,” he says, like it was some great heroic feat, like she did it out of the goodness of her heart, like he is proud. He smirks, lets out a puff of air that might pass for a chuckle in a less miserable setting. “I guess we do crazy things for the ones we love, don’t we?” 

He’s trying to get a rise out of her, but there is nothing left in her to evoke, only ashes, cold and gray. “Which is why I’m leaving,” she says, piling clothes in the pack, haphazard. It will be overfilled, near bursting at the seams, but she wants this room to feel like she has never been there. A ghost. 

_Isabela always had a strong sense of dramatic timing. She marched into that cavernous hall with the Tome clutched under her arm, past the viscount’s severed head, past a human body with a broken neck, over the corpse of a Qunari, wiping her boots on his back. And there was Hawke, covered in soot and blood but so relieved, so happy to see her that, for a few moments, Isabela believed she had made the right choice, that she could overcome her nature, that she could fight against the tide. Her heart swelled in her chest._

_She approached that colossal horned creature, saw the recognition flash in his beady eyes as he gazed upon her, the thief, the cause of his misery, his fury. She felt invincible._

“You’re not gonna deny it?” he asks, surprised. 

What does he expect her to say? That she loves her? That loving Hawke feels like drowning, like falling into an inferno, like being devoured? That it hurts like nothing she has ever felt before?

“Which. Is. Why. I’m. Leaving,” she snarls, each word spaced with more things stuffed away, more pieces of her Kirkwall life, the life she never meant to live when she washed onto the shore all those years ago. She wants to hurt him for rubbing salt into her wounds, and she knows precisely how to strike where it’s most tender. “What do you suggest I do? Should I name a crossbow after her?”

There. Anger. It’s not easy to provoke in Varric, but it’s there, narrowing his eyes, twitching in his jaw. She feels a sick sense of triumph.

“If your situations were reversed,” he says, and there is an edge to his tone that wasn’t there before, an edge she sharpened, “she would never even think to leave your side. You know that, right? You know she’s going to look for you the moment she wakes up.”

If she wakes up. If she ever wakes up. Please let her wake up. “Of course I know that. Because she’s a good person. The best person I’ve ever met.” She tries to cinch the straps closed, but the pack resists, strains under the tension. She pulls harder. “But I am nothing like her.” Hawke is a goddess, untouchable, and Isabela, a worm crawling in the dirt. She is not worthy. She never was.

_But the Qun demanded penance. If it was her life they wanted, she would understand. But the Qun had a place and a use for everyone, even if it had to break you, force you to submit to its uncompromising will. She knew they would have a batch of qamek prepared just for her. The only way they could snuff out her spirit would be to exorcise it from her completely, leaving her a mindless husk, the perfect slave._

_And Hawke, her beautiful, foolish Hawke, refused. Instead, Hawke and the Arishok would duel, a respect granted to so few outside the Qun it was almost unheard of. A duel to the death. For her._

“You know, at first I thought, she must be worried about the Raiders, that’s why she’s running. But I _know_ you know any of us would protect you. Without hesitation.” He is trying to catch her eyes, trying to work his charm, the way he does with everyone. It will not work on her. Desires have to exist in order to be manipulated. But he tries, twisting the knife deeper. “Which means this is about Hawke. She worked her way into that broken heart of yours and you can’t bear it. Don’t you think she’s suffered enough, all the shit she’s been through? You really want to add this onto that list?” His words come fast, unyielding, vengeful. He is scared. Scared Hawke won’t ever heal—body or mind or both.

_Isabela had tempted fate for too long, ignoring the darkening skies, the way the wind slowly picked up speed the more time Hawke spent in her radius. But the hurricane always came to collect. She would not be denied. Aveline held her back, wrapped Isabela's arms so tightly in her own she thought her shoulders would rip free from their sockets, but it was too late—she had set this story in motion the moment they met. The wind howled in her ears, tore at her body, every ring of steel on steel another monstrous wave crashing into her, pulling her down, down. And she could not turn away, could not run, could not close her eyes to her cataclysm. She could not look away, not when Hawke’s sword finally bit into the thick cords of muscle and sinew lining the Arishok’s neck, spraying a fountain of red all over the throne room, not when, with a dying bellow, he rammed his own weapon through Hawke’s gut and it came out so cleanly on the other side, like a sewing needle through cloth, and she was underwater and all she could hear was the dull roar of the ocean and all she could feel was the burn of saltwater replacing air._

He doesn’t know Hawke’s indomitable spirit like Isabela does. “She’ll be fine,” she says, and he won’t believe her, of course. But she is not powerful enough to break Hawke. Time will fix it all. With enough time, they will all forget her. Her hands are clumsy as she struggles to secure the prongs on the straps into their holes, fingers trembling like twigs in a storm. It is becoming harder to breathe.

“Will you?” His voice is gentle again, concerned, the way a friend should be.

She cannot stand it. It feels wrong, like unwanted hands all over her body. She takes his concern and murders it, stabs it in the back the way she does best.

“Fuck you,” she spits. “You don’t know me.” Gasping for air now, a hundred tons pressing on her chest, and he doesn’t even notice.

_—pale motionless lifeless, too much like Leandra, and she was screaming, collapsing, someone help her please and there were too many people, a crowd of bodies pushing in on her and over the rails of the ship into the water and they were screaming too, the five hundred voices she gave to the waves—_

Varric gives up, shakes his head. “No, I guess I don’t.” He sighs, abandons her, and each step toward the door is a relief, a little more space in her lungs. “Safe travels, Isabela,” he says by way of farewell. 

Does she even want safety anymore? The Armada doesn’t forget. Castillon will find her now, and he will know exactly what she has done, and he will make certain she suffers thoroughly before he kills her. The indignities she has inflicted on the Felicísima Armada will be returned to her a thousand-fold. Let him. She welcomes the chance to endure a simpler kind of pain. The fear in her now—the fear slamming her heart against her ribs, knotting the noose around her throat—does not belong to him. The fear fills her, consumes her, rewrites her past, present, and future until it is all she has ever been and ever will be, and there is no room for sadness, no room for regret. No room for love. But was there ever?

_—blood so much blood gushing from Bones’s neck and Hawke’s body and running together into a torrent down her throat and into her chest and she was drowning drowning drowning in an ocean of blood her fault all her fault someone wake her up—_

She slings the pack onto her back, with Backstabber and Heartbreaker alongside, and it is heavy, so heavy, but she will carry it to the ends of the world. Closing the door behind her, she leaves it all behind, every memory, every trace of her existence, every scrap of detritus in her catastrophic wake. Now, there is only the fear.

_Her mother dragged her to Llomerryn’s seer, a wizened crone whose wrinkles were more akin to canyons, her skin like dried, cracked leather. “Tell me what’s wrong with her,” Hari demanded. “She’s too headstrong. She won’t listen—to me or anyone. She’s more like a wild dog than a human.”_

_The crone’s cloudy eyes met Naishe’s, serenity to defiance, and Naishe knew immediately this was no parlor trick, no charlatan’s con, like the kind her mother performed. Something powerful was in that woman, something otherworldly, barely restrained beneath the surface. When she took Naishe’s hand in her own, there was a silence, a settling, like the eye of a storm. Like the seer had ripped the soul out of her, shredded it into minuscule fragments, and placed each individual piece, for the first time, where it truly belonged._

“Zu ekhaimmiri ize,” _she said. “You are a hurricane.” Her voice was like water through sand. “Your spirit is in chaos. You will bring pain and destruction to everything unable to withstand your winds. It is your nature.”_


	20. Act 2.5: "Even Though Our Love Is Doomed"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garbage: "Even Though Our Love Is Doomed"  
>  _And even though our love is cruel_  
>  _And even though our stars are crossed_  
>  _You're the only thing worth fighting for_  
>  _You're the only thing worth dying for_  
>  _Can you love me for what I've become?_  
>  _Love me for what I_  
>  _Said that I would not become?_
> 
> A series of vignettes in chronological order, taking place in the three years between Acts 2 and 3
> 
> Note: All dialogue in this chapter should be assumed to be in Rivaini unless otherwise stated.
> 
> Common Rivaini phrases and their translations:  
>  _alye_ : seer (a title)  
>  _enwan_ : a term of endearment from one woman to another  
>  _iku betimaan bela mil achoro_ : "may the wind always fill your sails." A common goodbye in Llomerryn, often shortened to _bela mil_  
>  _maenmuo zu hare_ : "spirits guard you." A blessing for the dead  
>  _nawan_ : a term of endearment from a man to a woman  
>  _shanerrat_ : literally, "be well/at peace." A greeting, used at any time of day

Rivain was where people went to disappear. Not like in Antiva, where “disappeared” was equivalent to “assassinated.” No, Rivain was where people went to become invisible. Her borders accepted the unlawful, the renegades, the loners, with open arms, offered them a chance to start anew. But what did that make her own people, those born on her soil? The Rivaini were Thedas’s lost souls, its hidden jewels, cloaked in mystery. The unconquered. Many other nations had laid claim to them over the ages: Tevinter, the Qunari, the Andrastians. They put her people to the sword when they would not submit, for they were the wolves, not the sheep. Despite the best efforts of their would-be-conquerors, pride kept the Rivaini alive, like seeds sprouting after a wildfire. They would bow to no foreign master.

It was her home, technically speaking, though it never felt like it. She belonged to no nation. Her home was on a ship in the open water, not in a land where kings and queens played games and drew borders that constantly shifted with war and politics. She was a woman of infinite countries, cultures, and languages, a patchwork quilt of experiences and tragedies. 

Yet she still found herself drawn to Rivain, pulling her in like a fish on a line. She followed the coast, kept it to her right-hand side, picking through winding mountain paths on her horse. Always alone, with nothing save her own thoughts for company. Mercifully, her mind was quiet most of the time, only focused on surviving—where to find water, where to set up camp, could she make it to the next town before sundown. It was the way she always responded to trauma: day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute. It was preferable to thinking about what she had left behind.

Summer was beginning to give way to autumn as she left the Free Marches, navigating the tendrils of the Tellari River’s delta, working her way inland to avoid the swamps. There was a crispness to the air, a chill that stole into her bones at night, and the leaves were starting to turn from green to fire, yellows and oranges and reds. Distinct seasons were one of the things she loved about the south. Where she was going, there were two seasons: wet and wetter. They called the former “dry,” but that was only a relative term; the rain barely let up, barely kept them from drowning on land. And it was hot, always. That didn’t change. She realized hurricane season would be in full swing by the time she arrived. Fitting.

She pushed her horse hard, tearing through Antiva as quickly as she could, avoiding the cities whenever possible. Too many bad memories made their home here, creeping up like shadows at sunset. Fortunately, she found a rickety bridge to take her from the Weyrs into the drylands. It was treacherous, but Seleny to the west reminded her of wine and rooftops and Hawke, and Antiva City to the east reminded her of brandy and brothels and Bones. So she braved the thundering current of the river, murmuring encouragement to her horse as the spray whipped up against his legs, leaving her boots slick in their stirrups.

Almost a month after she left Kirkwall, she crossed the border into Rivain. It didn’t quite feel like “home” until she stopped at an inn for the night, the first time she would sleep in a bed in two weeks. When she walked through the door and the smell hit her—a cacophony of spices and leather and perfume—she knew. When she saw all the fabric adorning bodies and hanging from the ceiling, every color of the rainbow, the golden bangles and rings and earrings, the swirls of ink threading through skin, she knew.

Having an actual conversation in Rivaini was more difficult than she thought it would be. The brief snatches of words and phrases she shared with Hawke were not quite enough to keep the rust from eroding her language skills—especially when those words and phrases were almost exclusively used in a _very_ particular context. Informing one’s sexual partner on the extent of one’s arousal did not exactly lend itself to ordering food or buying a room for the night. 

But she muddled her way through it, securing a bed and a hot meal, true luxuries at this point in her journey. When she tried to explain away her missteps to the bartender, a young man with high cheekbones and a head of close-cropped, tightly curled hair, he smiled.

“I thought maybe you were Antivan,” he said, laughing as she shot him a disgusted glare.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” She had to translate each word from the King’s Tongue to Rivaini in her head before speaking, a slow and frustrating process. It was like learning to walk all over again. “No, I am as Rivaini as they come, I’ve just been south for… a while.”

“What brings you back?”

She hesitated; he had no idea what a loaded question that was. “I missed food that tastes like something,” she said lightly, side-stepping the obvious in an attempt to shut her brain up for a little while longer.

“Ha! Then I’ll make sure your _faas_ has extra ‘something’ in it. Welcome home, _nawan_.” He offered her _ihe_ , but she wasn’t ready to drink it yet. Even the smell of it reminded her too much of Hawke. So she ordered a beer instead, because she could deal with missing the Hanged Man’s watered-down swill easier than missing the woman who used to drink it with her.

 _Faaswa_ , or _faas_ , was so endemic to Rivain it was not only the name of a specific dish, but the word for food in general. Every bar, every house, every hut had a pot of it bubbling away at any given time of day. At its core, _faaswa_ was simple: small red beans stewed in enough spices to bankrupt a southern lord. But the beauty of _faas_ was in its capacity for variation. Meat was a frequent addition for those who could obtain it. Pork was common closer to Antiva, while goat and fish were used further down the peninsula. Vegetables were often thrown in as an afterthought, cooked down until they lost all semblance of individuality, becoming part of the whole. 

And maybe there were isolated parts of the country where _faaswa_ wasn’t scorching hot from copious amounts of peppers, but Isabela had yet to see a mild version, and her bowl of it certainly wasn’t one. The initial warmth of nostalgia was quickly overridden by burning pain that left her coughing, eyes and nose streaming. So much time in the south had made her palate weak. It was embarrassing. Fortunately, she still remembered how to lob some proper curses at the bartender, who was clearly taking great delight in her agony. But what stung worse was her sudden longing for the slop served at the Hanged Man, with the red sauce that didn’t really taste like anything. She finished her food in silence. 

She was at least another day’s ride from Afsaana, another day away from unloading some of this ridiculous pack. Why did she take so much with her, she thought for the millionth time since she left, struggling up the stairs on legs wobbly from riding. So many memories, so much dead weight she should let go.

Her room was surprisingly well-furnished for a tiny border town inn. She didn’t care about any of that, though, only the bed, lined with blue sheets and looking clean and oh so inviting. With a thud that likely rattled the plates in the bar below, she slipped the pack from her weary shoulders and collapsed face-first into the mattress, legs hanging off the side.

Despite her exhaustion, she found she could not sleep, her mind finally catching up after a month of pure survival had kept it sweetly hijacked. She finally did it. All her talk, her promises of leaving Kirkwall had now come to fruition. And it wasn’t even by boat. Did they miss her? Varric probably didn’t, not after the parting words she gave him, the way she lashed out like a cornered animal. And the others didn’t even get an attempt at a goodbye. Cut and run; it was her way. She never meant to stay long enough to get attached. 

And then there was Hawke…

Thinking about Hawke was so painful her mind almost didn’t allow it, attempting some last-ditch self-preservation, trying to block out the memories like a moat around a castle. Hawke’s fight with the Arishok had gaps, black spaces where Isabela was sure images should be, because she could not tear her eyes away from any of the horror in that throne room. She remembered Hawke dodging his heavy swings endlessly, trying to exhaust him, but the Qunari had the stamina of someone half his size and moved so much faster than anyone that large had a right to. She could recall Hawke’s fatal blow, could recall the way the Arishok dropped his axe and clutched at his neck, soaking his hand in gouts of blood, but when she tried to reinvision his sword plunging through Hawke’s body, she found there was nothing there: no sound, no sight, as though she had blacked out and awoke in time to see Hawke collapsed on the ground, the crowd rushing forward to surround her limp body, gawking.

She wanted to believe Hawke survived. Anders was already sprinting towards her before she had hit the ground, his hands glowing blue, heedless of the Templars pounding up the stairs. If anyone could heal her, he could. But that wound was brutal, far beyond Hawke’s usual bumps and scrapes, and in a terrible spot. Isabela had seen abdominal wounds putrefy even after they were stitched up and seemed fine. And if that sword had so much as knicked Hawke’s spine… no. This was far too morbid. And yet she couldn’t stop thinking about it, her mind lost in spiraling doom.

In desperate need of a distraction, she sat up and glanced around the room for something, anything. Her eyes fell on the writing supplies atop her desk. That could work. She thought of her long-departed captain’s log, filled with all her trials and tribulations, adventures and disasters, her most private emotions. It, like so many pieces of her history, was a victim of the Waking Sea’s vicious shoals. But perhaps writing could still be a sanctuary.

As she sat at the desk, quill in hand, she wasn’t sure what to put on the parchment. She dipped the nib into the inkpot, hovered over the paper, paused, thought a bit, chewed on her fingernail, realized her ink had dried, swore, then tried again. Eventually, the words started to flow—a slow trickle at first, then a stream, then a river, flooding out of her hand onto the parchment.

Hawke—

It’s me. I’m in Rivain. ~~I’m okay~~. It feels so strange to be back here. I’m eating the same food and speaking the same language I did as a child, so it should feel comfortable, shouldn’t it? But I feel like a foreigner. I’m not sure how long I’ll stay here, but I don’t know where else to go. All I know is that I couldn’t stay in Kirkwall and I can’t come back.

I realize that’s probably not a satisfactory explanation. I wish I had a better one. I wish I could be a better ~~friend~~ ~~lover~~ friend to you. I wish I could be a better person. I don’t know why I’m like this. Is it nature or nurture? I’ve always wondered. If I had a family like yours, would I still be this fucked up?

Everything that happened with the Qunari was because of me. I brought them to Kirkwall. I don’t know why I’m telling you things you already know. Maybe writing it out is more for my benefit. But it always is about my benefit, isn’t it? You could’ve given me to him. I would have. All your problems would’ve been taken care of. But you didn’t, did you? You wanted to be the knight in shining armor. You risked your life for me, ~~maybe even gave your life for me~~ and I repaid you by running away. Maybe you think I wanted to be the hero, too, when I came back with the book. I didn’t. I wasn’t thinking about all the innocent lives I could save. I didn’t care about them. I’m no hero.

I miss everyone. I know they probably all hate me, and I deserve that, but I still miss them. But it’s better this way.

~~I miss you.~~

I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. If it’s even worth anything at this point.

—Isabela

She folded the letter in half, dragging her fingernail down the partition, forming a tight, clean crease. Then she tore the parchment along that fold, and ripped it again, and again, until she had a mound of paper pieces on the desk. Scooping them into her palm, she went to the window, stuck her hand out, and let the pieces flutter into the air and fall, white flakes dusting ground that had never once seen snow.

* * *

After a few months in Afsaana, Isabela was broke and hungry, a not uncommon situation throughout her life, but a sensation she had managed to avoid for quite some time. Being Hawke’s friend had some benefits, after all. Admittedly, Isabela had never been especially skilled at managing her finances; her mantra of “live for the moment” did not leave much room for planning for tomorrow. So when she found herself foraging for coppers for a bowl of _faas_ from the cheapest stall in Afsaana that wouldn’t give her food poisoning, it was not exactly surprising.

Old habits die hard. When she saw the pouch of coins, left so carelessly on a windowsill, her fingers started to twitch. It was right there, begging to be taken. Someone probably forgot about it. They wouldn’t miss it. And if they did, they would learn not to leave pouches of coins on windowsills. Everyone benefitted, really. 

Those mental leaps of logic fueled her movements, movements perfected by a lifetime of practice. If anything could give her away, it was the growl twisting painfully in her gut, her constant motivator. One, two, three steps and the pouch became hers, the weight of its contents and the muffled clinks of coins already beginning to ease the ache in her belly. 

And then a young girl and her mother stepped outside of the house and went directly to the windowsill, bickering the whole way, and Isabela’s rationalizations began to slip.

“I left it right here, I swear!” the girl argued, pointing to the recently vacated resting place of the coin pouch now in Isabela’s pocket.

“That was supposed to feed us for the next week!” her mother shot back, weariness and worry darkening her voice. Isabela cringed involuntarily; that tone was close to one she heard all too often as a child.

If the hunger hurt, her nascent conscience hurt more.

Isabela took the pouch out of her pocket. The girl was starting to cry, too young to completely understand the severity of her mistake, but old enough to grasp the consequences of her mother’s anger. Isabela thought of Amelie and cursed this moral compass that had suddenly found its pole after decades of malfunction.

“I found this on the ground just over there,” she said, gesturing to some vague location across the alley. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

The girl’s face lit up. “That’s it!” she yelled, taking the coin purse and clutching it to her chest. 

Her mother sighed, the tension easing from her shoulders, the lines between her brows smoothing. “Please be more careful, child. Not everyone will be kind enough to return the things you lose.” She looked at Isabela, though Isabela could not meet her eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m glad there are still decent people in this world.”

Oh, and there was the guilt, right on schedule. A victimless crime, wasn’t it?

What would an actual decent person do, she wondered as she left the alleyway and wandered down a short grassy decline leading to the beach. How did that one Fereldan saying go? Give a man a fish and he... has a fish, maybe. Teach him to fish and… something, something. She couldn’t remember, but thinking about fish made her stomach resume its rumbling, harder this time, like her guts were about to eat themselves.

Out on the waves, fleets of small fishing boats clustered, their triangular sails poking out of the blue like shark teeth. Afsaana, like many coastal Rivaini cities, had a thriving fishing industry, hauling in dozens of fat tunas, swordfish, and more on a daily basis, loaded onto wagons and hauled to fishmongers in both Afsaana proper and smaller villages along its periphery.

Longlining for fish in those little lateen-rigged dinghies wasn’t exactly the same as raiding and smuggling in a proper three-masted, carvel built galleon, but sailing was something she knew, at least, and it paid. Maker help her, she was going to get a proper job.

* * *

It was a little unsettling how fast the fisherman (was he a captain? She didn’t know how it worked on fishing boats) agreed to take her on. He had a place on a boat for her the next morning at sunrise, he said. The thought of waking up that early was mildly distressing.

She should sleep. But Isabela was a perpetual night owl and never found sleep an easy catch. There were many nights at sea where she would simply wander the decks like a ghost all night, taking in the silence, the stars, the gentle rocking of the waves. So, like she did so often since she entered Rivain, she sat down with her writing supplies on the floor in the hovel that was to be her home that evening, with no light save a candle.

  
Hawke—

You have ruined me. I stole a coin purse left outside today, like I have a million times since I learned to walk. It wasn’t even on a lark—I had a damned good reason to do it. You know, that whole “needing to eat” thing. Very inconvenient. And then... I gave it back. Not only did I give it back, I went to the docks and got a job on a fishing boat. “An honest wage for honest work,” the man said. Can you imagine me doing honest work? What do I know how to do? I am a thief. I am a pirate. A regular ne’er-do-well. And now I’m supposed to wake up at some unholy hour to go catch fish for people who aren’t me. This is your bloody influence. I hope you’re proud.

-Isabela

She crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it in the corner with the other random bits of trash leftover from former inhabitants. Blowing out the candle, she curled up under her threadbare blanket and demanded sleep to take her. Slumber refused to be commanded, as was its wont, and she spent hours with her eyes wide open trying to ignore the sounds of mice skittering in and out of the cracks in the floorboards.

* * *

It didn’t take long for Isabela to realize she was not cut out for honest work. One day, to be exact. One very long day of back-breaking, sweaty, stinky labor on pissant little boats with a bunch of men who had mouths like pirates but lacked the balls to _be_ pirates. They treated her like a naive landlubber, like she hadn’t run up and down the coast from Rivain to Orlais with a crew of two hundred, like she had never been on a fucking boat in her life. Well, she showed them. She went right out into the chop and kept the boat under their feet, she threw those lines out and she hauled those fish in. She rammed her knife into so many fish to gut them she could hardly feel her hands at the end of the day. And when she came back to shore, filthier than she had ever been in her life, sore in places she didn’t know could get sore, the man who owned the boats (he didn’t even know how to sail!) put ten coppers in her hand, winked, and said, “If you want extra, I’m sure I can find something else for you to do that’s more fun than fishing.”

She needed a bath. A bath and a lot of whiskey. Which would cost approximately ten coppers. What a miserable way to live.

One hour of scrubbing later, and the smell of fish guts still lingered, an unwanted tenant in her nostrils she could not evict. Regardless, that was one thing on her list checked off. Now for the second. She plodded down the stairs, hair still a sodden mess, praying her legs wouldn’t collapse beneath her, then took a seat at the bar. Before she could order an entire keg of something for herself, the woman seated next to her slid an extra pint over.

“Rough day at sea?” she asked.

Isabela lifted her head from her arms and grasped the cup’s handle like a lifeline. Afsaana certainly wasn’t known for its ale, a brew that managed to be both bland and bitter, but at that moment, nothing had ever tasted better, and the pint was half-gone by the time she set it down.

“Aye,” was all she could say.

“I’d like to say it gets better, but that would be a terrible lie,” said the stranger. Her voice was rich, mellow, and her accent placed her as a northerner, where the extended contact with Antiva produced a smoother cadance than the rest of the country, a slight lilt woven throughout her words that Isabela lacked.

Like a stuck cork in a wine bottle, Isabela slowly turned her head. The stranger was a tall woman, a fisherman, too, by the looks of her clothes—more practical than pretty, lacking jewelry—and by the looks of the muscles in her shoulders and arms, built by years of lugging longlines full of fish. Her hair was short, her smile came easy, and something about her seemed so familiar, though Isabela doubted they had ever met before.

“I’m not built for this sort of thing,” Isabela said, giving an over-dramatic sigh. Maybe a bit much, but she was allowed some drama after the day she had.

The left side of the other woman’s mouth turned up. “Now you’ve got me wondering what else you’re built for,” she ventured, and the look in her eyes would’ve made any other woman blush.

“You can find out for yourself later, if you’d like.” Isabela usually liked a little more banter, a little more challenge, but she was exhausted and starving for physical contact. She wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity.

“Direct. I appreciate that,” said the woman. “Well, I won’t mince words either. My room’s at the end of the hall. I leave for Dairsmuid in the morning.” She motioned for the bartender to refill Isabela’s pint, then stood. Her posture was relaxed, confident, her hand on the back of Isabela’s chair. “If you’re interested in keeping me company until then, I wouldn’t say no.” Without waiting for a response, or even looking back, she walked away, up the stairs, out of sight.

Isabela rested her elbows on the bar, trying to relieve the ache in her back and shoulders. Her thirst somewhat sated, she sipped the ale slower now, though it was not worth savoring. She considered the woman’s proposition. It was simple. It was uncomplicated. They didn’t even know each other’s names, and Isabela found she didn’t really want to. The anonymity made it easier, made the outcome clearer. An itch to be scratched. One night of pleasure, never to be seen again. That was always how it used to be. Before. 

* * *

She would take her time before visiting the other woman’s room. Going right away would seem desperate, and besides, this would give her the opportunity to relax, freshen up, try to not smell like she had been waist-deep in fish corpses all day. A thrill wound its way around the base of her spine; anticipation, anxiety, desire. How long had it been? The last time had been with Hawke, a quick and risky bit of business in a sideroom at the Viscount’s Keep. Clothes kept on, sounds muffled by free hands, the threat of discovery fueling the fire. They parted afterward with nothing to show for it save disheveled hair and the slightest blush across Hawke’s cheeks as she tried to compose herself enough to meet with the viscount. That was the last time, but it wasn’t typical. Her usual encounters with Hawke were often not encounters at all, but hours-long affairs with too much kissing, too much eye contact, too soft, too sweet, too slow. Too dangerous.

Where was Hawke now, she wondered. Whose bed was she warming? Did she, too, seek the company of strangers? Isabela hoped so. The best way to get over someone, after all, was to get under somebody else.

She needed to clear her head. It was no good preparing to touch someone else with ghosts whispering in her ear.

  
Hawke—

I met someone. I know what you’ll think, because we have two different definitions of that word “met,” so let me be clear. She’s going to fuck me. I’m going to fuck her. Some sort of fucking is going to happen, and that’s all that will happen, because that’s all that I do. I don’t know her name. She will be gone by the morning, and so will I. 

~~She reminds me of you.~~

Do you remember what I told you, about how you deserve someone who loves you? I meant it. I want nothing more for you than that. You have a good heart, a kind heart, and someone should handle it with care and respect. I want you to fall ridiculously, hopelessly in love, because I know that’s the way you like to do things. And if you’re holding a torch for me still, I hope you’ll douse it. You deserve better.

—Isabela

This letter she tore into quarters, then eighths, neat little squares blown about her desk, castaways. She was never meant to be the one. Not for Hawke. She was meant to be the encounter, the rendezvous, a stranger between the sheets. And as she walked to the door at the end of the hall, she smiled. She was in control.

* * *

The stranger was packing clothes and other supplies into trunks and chests when Isabela arrived. It was a comfort, of a sort, to know she really would be leaving for another city in the morning. That this could just be a one-time event, a moment of pleasure to relieve a displeasurable day. 

“I admit, I was a little concerned you had accidentally passed out on me,” the woman said, closing the lid of the trunk, putting some force into it to overcome the piles of clothing threatening to spill out. The amount of luggage indicated she had been in Afsaana for a while, likely following the local season for bluefin, by far the most profitable of large ocean fish. 

Sleep was an attractive idea, but, despite being in direct competition, sex was always more enticing. “And miss a golden opportunity? Never.”

“I’m Sarodj, by the way. In case you need a name to moan later.”

There wasn’t much that gave Isabela pause, but Sarodj’s forwardness managed to do it. Still, it was refreshing, even if she doubted she would “need” her name at all.

“Isabela,” she replied.

Sarodj crossed the room and stood close enough for Isabela to see the the tattoos covering her arms—whorls of black and red ink, darting through her skin from shoulder to wrist.

“That’s a mouthful. Might have to shorten it to ‘Bela.’ Appropriate for two sailors, no?”

It was a pun she had heard a thousand times before. _Bela_ was the word for sails in Rivaini. Beyond that, it was a nickname reserved only for her closest friends. But she wasn’t about to correct Sarodj. Let her call Isabela whatever she wanted; it didn’t matter. 

“You can replace it with the deity of your choice. I find ‘Oh, Maker’ works well.”

“You must sleep with a lot of southern girls, then,” Sarodj said, laughing, her hands around Isabela’s waist, strong, promising.

Not that many. Isabela shrugged. “Southern, northern, men, women. I’ve been around.” There was that spark she was waiting for, the tension of wanting. This was going to be fast and dirty; she could feel it in the energy between them.

“A lover in every port?” Sarodj asked. Such an overused phrase among sailors, no matter the truth of it. Sarodj wasn’t the first lover for Isabela in this particular port and would likely not be the last. Just a stop along the way, a notch in a belt.

“That’s the idea.” 

Isabela pulled Sarodj in, tired of banter, needing what she came for. Sarodj responded as Isabela knew she would, mouth crushing into hers, hands hungry, and she took all of it and demanded more. She needed this, this push and pull, tongue and teeth on her neck.

Sarodj’s shirt came off immediately, tossed carelessly to the side. Her body was gorgeous; the product of a lifetime of hard work, the sort of body Isabela always found herself so drawn to, and she wanted to learn all of it under her fingertips, but Sarodj ducked behind her, pressed into Isabela’s back, fingers under the hem of her blouse, pulling it up and off. The feeling of their skin together was far more exciting than it ought to be; Isabela hadn’t realized how much she missed being touched.

“Oh, this is interesting,” Sarodj remarked, trailing her thumb over Isabela’s left shoulder blade, over that blighted skull settled in her skin. “I knew you sounded like an islander, but a captain for the Armada? What in the world are you doing on a fishing boat?”

Isabela tensed. A good question, but not one she wanted to hear in this particular situation. “I needed a change of pace. Even piracy gets boring after a while.” She hoped Sarodj would let it go. She didn’t want to talk about the Armada, or her old life as a captain, or anything, really. She just wanted to be fucked.

Fortunately, Sarodj seemed to take the hint, her short burst of laughter hot against Isabela’s neck, and Isabela allowed her shoulders to relax, gave into the hands roaming her hips, her ribs, her breasts. She worked to focus on the physical sensations, grasping at the strands of arousal threaded within her. One strand as Sarodj rolled a nipple between her fingers, another as she took Isabela’s earlobe between her teeth.

Sarodj had too much rope, too much control, and Isabela turned around, brought their mouths back together, fingernails across skin, until she was able to draw a small groan from Sarodj’s throat, echoing across her tongue. There. That was better.

Not one to be outdone, Sarodj used her height and physical prowess to her advantage, pushing Isabela onto the bed before climbing atop her. She hooked her thumbs into Isabela’s pants and waited, breathless.

Isabela nodded, the pants were off, and before Sarodj had time to think of what to do next, Isabela had her by the wrist, guiding Sarodj’s fingers inside her, and then there were a few more strands to grab. She swore, once in Rivaini, once in the common tongue, and Sarodj smirked, curled her fingers, determined to see what other languages she could drag out.

There was no doubt about it; Sarodj was an experienced and attentive partner. She cycled through different tempos, different depths, different angles, rapt for any affirmative response. 

Isabela, for her part, tried to give feedback, tried to hold on to each flash of heat bursting within her, tried to build them into a roaring fire, a cresting wave, but the pieces slipped through her fingers, scattering into embers and eddies. Their rhythm syncopated, Isabela’s concentration faltered, and excitement began to give way to frustration.

A pause then, a noticeable disconnection, and Isabela slid her own hand down to lightly rest on Sarodj’s forearm. “Wait,” she said, and the concern on Sarodj’s face left Isabela contrite. 

“Everything okay?” Sarodj asked. “You want to try something else?” 

She said all the right things, did all the right things, but nothing _felt_ right. Like a song played with one instrument out-of-tune or a knife with a dulled tip. Isabela struggled to find an excuse, not wanting to hurt Sarodj’s pride, though she didn’t know why she cared.

“I think the work today left me more exhausted than I anticipated,” Isabela said, and the words felt so feeble.

Sarodj smiled, nodded, slipped her fingers free, and if her ego was bruised, she covered it convincingly enough. “It’s no problem,” she said. “You should try and get some rest. The second day is harder than the first.”

She didn’t ask for reciprocation, and Isabela didn’t offer. “Sorry,” Isabela said, though she didn’t feel it. “It’s not usually… like this.” It had never been like this, so hollow, so discomfiting, and she could not understand why.

“Well, if you're in Dairsmuid in the next six months and want to give it another go, that’s where I’ll be.” It was a proposal both women knew was pointless. They would never see each other again.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Isabela replied, and she wouldn’t. Fetching her clothes, she tugged them back on, facing the door, not wanting to look at Sarodj anymore. She didn’t know what she wanted. “Have a good night,” she forced out as irritation began to envelop her. If Sarodj returned the goodbye, Isabela didn’t hear it. She was already stomping off to her room, a damning realization developing.

* * *

The anger that started as a glowing cinder blazed into an inferno as Isabela slammed the door to her room shut behind her. This was a new development—one she had not anticipated, and certainly one she did _not_ want to deal with. It wasn’t only that the sex was unsatisfying. It wasn’t the first time a roll in the sheets had fizzled out for her, after all. No, the issue was _why_ it proved unsatisfying, _why_ nothing felt right.

She lit a candle on her desk, sat down, and snatched a piece of parchment from that stack she continued to carry around with her. All those letters. All those fucking letters. Well, here was one more. The last one. The ink blotted and bled as she scratched out the words, pressing so hard with the quill she was in danger of ripping the parchment.

  
Fuck you.  
How dare you. What gives you the right to do this to me? You’re gone. I left.  
I don’t want to think about you anymore. I never wanted this in the first place.  
I feel like I need an exorcism. Is that what it will take for me to be free from you?  
Leave me alone.  
Let me go.  
~~I wish I never met you.~~  


The letter was fed to the candle before the ink dried.

It was decided. She would work on the fishing boats only as long as it took to scrape enough money together to leave. Then she would make good on that tattoo on her back and return to Llomerryn, the closest place to home she knew. It was a foolish, dangerous idea, even more foolish and dangerous than usual for a woman whose life was filled with such decisions. Llomerryn was also the home of the Felicísima Armada. If Castillon was anywhere in Thedas, it would be on the island. She was practically delivering herself into his hands. Let him attempt to take her. She would kill him or die trying. Either way, the promise of destruction was comforting.

* * *

Beyond piracy and peace accords, Llomerryn was perhaps most famous for its markets. Or rather, market, singular, because all others paled in comparison, in danger of becoming engulfed by _Anahia_ , with its innumerable tents and tarps, winding through the main thoroughfare of the island like a fat, rainbow-colored eel. _Anahia_ literally meant “market” in Rivaini, but when anyone in Llomerryn informed their family they needed to swing by _Anahia_ for something or another, it was understood to be the capitalized word, not some cheap imitation. Though cheap imitations were certainly not in short supply throughout _Anahia’s_ stalls.

If you wanted it, someone at _Anahia_ had it—for the right price, of course. Weapons of every make and variety, from the most mundane steel knives to extravagant enchanted staves. Lyrium, easy to spot by its eerie blue glow, could typically be purchased in processed forms such as liquid or dust—raw lyrium was banned (an extravagant feat on its own, given the nature of the market) after the Great Explosion in 8:49 Blessed turned downtown Llomerryn into a crater. Some corners of _Anahia_ took a darker turn: poisons, for example—both their reagents and the finished products—weren’t hard to find if one knew where to look. If one needed an opponent disposed of quickly and quietly, that could be arranged with the Crows or the Raiders or even the Tal-Vashoth. And if a woman wanted to sell her fifteen year-old daughter to a rich Antivan merchant, _Anahia_ could provide.

Despite its reputation, _Anahia_ had plenty of legitimate, normal merchandise. Fishmongers set up shop primarily along the southern edge of the market, where the trip from the ocean to the tray was shortest. The best merchants used buckets and barrels of water to keep the fish alive until purchase and had on-site butchers wielding thin, flexible knives to cut pieces to order. One particularly successful seller employed a mage who was paid handsomely to occasionally wave her hands and form ice crystals under the platters. Throngs of buyers would descend upon the stalls as soon as the catch of the day was hauled in, and it was every man, woman, and child for themselves to try and snag the freshest product. Isabela had borne witness to many a fistfight over a choice fish or a basket of scallops.

Other foodstuffs dotted the market: spice vendors with bowls and sacks of powders, seeds, teas, dried herbs and flowers and peppers, a spectrum of shades and smells so intense the mind is forced to deaden itself or be completely overwhelmed. Between those stands, similar clay platters sat piled high with different kinds of produce—every variety of citrus imaginable, stacks of golden-brown starchy tubers called _boro_ , rice, dried beans for _faas_ , raw coffee, coconuts. It was not unusual to enter _Anahia_ desiring one thing only to leave with an aching armful of everything else, forgetting what one even came to the market for in the first place.

However, Isabela did not come to _Anahia_ to buy anything, at least not that day. For her, the best part about going to the market came not from the things she could get, but rather, the people she could watch, for _Anahia_ had a life of its own, a sort of pulse. She adored the chaos, the crowds. There was nothing else like it. Kirkwall came close, but its society was too stratified, too obsessed with hierarchy. In Llomerryn, everyone was equal, for everyone had the same amount of sand in their hourglass; one’s mortality was always assured. People flowed through the market’s streets like blood through veins. And an endless amount of people provided endless amounts of entertainment. Rivaini weren’t squeamish about public displays of emotion or affection; relationships bloomed and withered in _Anahia’s_ fertile soil, passionate kisses and tearful arguments both in abundance at any given time. And it wasn’t just Rivaini offering an insight into their affairs—as a major port city in Thedas, Llomerryn attracted all sorts: humans of every hue and nation, dwarves, Qunari missionaries and Tal-Vashoth (those two groups tended to stay on opposite ends of the island, and Isabela tended to stay away from both), and more. Even a clan of Dalish had migrated here since Isabela’s last visit, integrating into the island’s melting pot without difficulty, bartering for goods at _Anahia_ like anyone else. It made her miss Merrill.

And even those with nothing physical to sell could still make a few coins. Street musicians decorated every corner, the sounds of their instruments blending into one another in a discordant wail, drums and flutes and fiddles and other things that were not meant to be instruments but were persuaded into making some sort of rhythmic noise regardless. Musicians, especially those with the same instruments, were particularly territorial. Isabela once heard a tale of two drummers fighting over the same corner; their grudge wasn’t settled until one man turned up in a ditch with a slit throat and a drumstick through his eye socket. 

Of course, Isabela couldn’t ignore the sheer quantity of fortune tellers, at least one within a stone’s throw of anywhere she walked, their tables lined with lavishly embroidered cloth, atop which sat amulets and other trinkets, cards and candles and potions. The vast majority were like her mother: silver-tongued con artists, full of empty promises traded for coin. Isabela had even done it herself a few times. It was easy enough. Everyone wanted one of three things: love, health, or wealth. Leave each “prediction” with a question mark at the end, and the mark would fill in the rest, leaving the fortune teller a trail of crumbs to follow. Flip a few cards, wave some incense around, hand over a potion made from weeds and white rum, swear this will get him the girl he’s after, twenty coppers, please. Despite her success, she left the divinations to her mother after only a couple of tries; somehow, it made her feel dirty in a way stealing didn’t. Preying on people’s hopes and dreams seemed crueler than simply taking their gold directly.

Most of the fortune tellers weren’t difficult to ignore. Their hawking faded into the background thrum of _Anahia,_ their stalls blending with all the others like pebbles in a riverbed. A few were more persistent, but a sharp refusal and a brush of fingers across her dagger’s hilt were enough to shake them off. There was one offer, however, that cut through the din straight to the deepest recesses of Isabela’s mind, forcing memories lost and waning in murky shadows into the most blinding of lights.

“ _Shanerrat, enwan_. Care to have your future told? Five coppers for a palm reading, a silver for a spell.”

Time seemed to slow, as though in a dream, the crowds and awnings and clamor dissolving around her, until there was only a woman, bloated and sickly, a yellow tinge to her skin, looking far older and battered than her five decades of life would suggest. She looked at Isabela with the hazy eyes of a stranger, seeing only a mark, not her daughter.

Isabela stared at her mother, suddenly feeling as though she had plunged into a frozen lake. “Why would I want my future read by someone who can’t even see her own past?” she said, twenty years of simmering anger she thought had cooled beginning to boil.

Hari blinked, then squinted, lurching up straighter in her chair. Realization dawned on her face, but there was no joy in it, only suspicion.

“Naishe?”

“Yes.” Isabela would not correct her. She refused to share her new name, her true name, with this pathetic drunk masquerading as a mother. Hari did not deserve it.

The same smile she used to have: cold and thin, like morning frost coating grass, her eyes remaining hard, two obsidian disks. She made no motion to stand, and for that, Isabela was thankful.

“I’m surprised to see you here. I thought your hatred of me would’ve kept you from setting foot in Rivain ever again.”

Of course. Hari could not conceive of a world not constantly revolving around her. Isabela wasn’t sure why she didn’t keep walking; nothing good would come of this conversation, she was sure of it. She wasn’t looking for maternal love, or forgiveness, or even closure. But something kept her rooted to the spot, in conflict with her logic.

“And I thought your love of the Qun would have you in Par Vollen, not pulling the same tricks in _Anahia_ twenty years later,” she replied.

“It was decided I could better serve the Qun by staying here,” Hari said without hesitation, and it was such a bald-faced lie Isabela could have laughed at the absurdity. All the lectures, the hypocrisy, the fights, all of it for nothing. Hari was still a leech on Llomerryn’s back, paying lip service to the Qun. “And what happened to that Antivan that took you?” Hari asked, a hard diversion she clearly knew would get her daughter’s hackles up.

And it did. Isabela’s jaw clenched at Hari’s choice of words. She was _bought_ , not taken. _Taking_ implied stealing, which implied the “owner” would rather keep their possessions. Hari sold her like a cow at an auction, like a cheap necklace pawned for coppers. _Just take her_.

“He passed of a mysterious illness a year after we married,” Isabela said with a sneer, fighting to keep rage from wavering her voice. “The healer thought it might have something to do with the knife in the back of his head.”

Hari shook her head, disappointed. “I should’ve known you would have killed him. How like my daughter to ruin the greatest gift I could ever give her.”

“A gift? That’s what you call selling me?” The audacity struck Isabela harder than anything else. The sheer gall. “The things that man put me through… and I’m supposed to be _grateful?"_ Even if Hari wasn’t there to see Isabela passed around like a bottle of brandy, how could she not guess? A young woman sold to a rich old man did not leave much room for possibility.

“Oh, I doubt he put you through anything you weren’t already doing here in Rivain.” Hari shuffled her cards over and over as she spoke, riffle to bridge and back again, the sound swallowed by _Anahia_. “You wanted freedom. Isn’t that what you always told me when I tried to show you the wisdom of the Qun? That Antivan could give you far more than I ever could. More than anything you could have in Rivain. I gave you to him because I loved you, Naishe.”

There was the smallest of tugs in her heart, the last gasps of a child desperate for affection, but she silenced it immediately. No. She was an adult now, no longer a child, and she would not be manipulated by hollow assurances, no matter how prettily they were painted. She thought of Leandra then—the few conversations they shared over tea, her last words to Hawke before she died. The strangeness, the novelty of it all. Family. 

“I’ve seen a mother’s love, and it’s not something you’ve ever possessed.”

From gentle to callous like a flipped switch, just like always. “You haven’t changed at all. Still an ungrateful brat with a smart mouth. And what good has all that cleverness done you, hm?” Hari took a swig from a bottle stored under her chair. Llomerryn dark rum.

Isabela could have told her. Could have told her how she had made and spent more gold than Hari’s greedy mind could ever conceive. Could have told her of the decade she spent as one of the most feared raiders of the eastern seas. Could have told her about all the places she had traveled. Could have told her she knew love and loss and the deepest of friendships. But what was the point? She wasn’t a little girl desperate to make Mother proud. Besides, she doubted Hari had the emotional capacity to understand any of it. Her mother lived in stasis, frozen in decades past, and all she saw was a tempestuous fifteen year-old, not the woman that child had become. So Isabela let her silence speak for her.

But Hari was illiterate when it came to reading between the lines, and Isabela had always been her greatest stumbling block. “That’s what I thought,” her mother scoffed. “You’ve made nothing of yourself, have you?” Again, the switch flipped as she grasped for a reaction. “I only want what’s best for you. It’s all any mother wants.”

Isabela had met a number of people like Hari over the years. People who pushed her buttons with an expert hand. People who got her back up without breaking a sweat. Not that Isabela was especially difficult to agitate; her temper was as legendary as the number of notches in her bedpost. She wanted to, she could have stood there for hours in front of that table of lies, spitting venom, scrounging up every last scrap of her anger to continue a battle that should have ended twenty years ago. But she remembered what Hawke asked her about Hari, as they mourned Leandra’s loss together: “Do you ever think about what you would say to her if you saw her again?”

 _No, she’s dead to me_. And this woman slumped in her chair, who would call herself a mother, was in the grips of drink, and she was dying, and soon she would be dead. Hari was like a desire demon, feeding on the emotions of those around her. Love or hatred, positive or negative, it made little difference. The cruelest thing Isabela could do to her mother was to starve her, to give her nothing but indifference. She gave her fury permission to evaporate and walked away.

* * *

The seer’s abode was much as she remembered, humble and small, the only hint of her station revealed in the clay shingles adorning the roof rather than thatched palm leaves. Pushing through the embroidered cloth that served as a door, Isabela expected to see a crowd of devotees inside, for Llomerryn’s seer had to serve the entire island, not just a small village like most did. But there were only two women inside the hut, one young, one very old, wreathed in incense smoke, glowing under an array of candles fighting off the outside gloom. Though Isabela had spent enough time around Anders to correct herself: there were at least two other beings present besides the three mortals.

“Ah, the hurricane child has returned to our shores,” croaked the ancient one, more crumpled than seated upon a tasseled floor cushion, draped in orange and gold fabric despite the stifling heat inside the hut. Isabela’s heart skipped a beat as she peered through the veil of smoke. It was the old seer Hari had thrown her in front of almost twenty years ago. Isabela couldn’t believe the woman was still alive, though upon reflection, it made sense. Rivaini seers were the toughest of them all, and she likely had the help of a spirit or two to keep her going. The seer motioned to the other occupant, a woman close to Isabela’s age, and she, with great care, helped the crone to her feet.

No longer a petulant child, Isabela at least had the humility to bow this time.

“You’ve read her before, _alye_?” asked the younger one. She had the same eyes as the seer, warm yet piercing, though hers were clear and bright where the crone’s were dimmed and dulled by the relentless pressure of time.

The seer chuckled, a sound like wet gravel crunching under boots. “You don’t forget a soul like hers. Come, this will be good practice.” Leaning heavily on a staff every bit as gnarled and wrinkled as she was, the seer hobbled over to where Isabela stood. “Naya, my granddaughter and apprentice,” she explained. “She will take my place at Allsmet this year.”

“I am honored, _alye_ ,” Isabela addressed them both, a trace of anxiety beginning to course through her gut. There was something deeply unsettling about being read, particularly now that she had a clearer idea of what the seers would find.

“More polite than you used to be, at least.” The old seer’s palms were cool as morning dew, her skin like parchment as she held Isabela’s left hand within her own, gentle, as though she was holding a newborn’s hand instead of one calloused and scarred by years of ropes, knives, and blood. “There will be much to sift through in this one, child,” she said to Naya, who took Isabela’s right hand. “Do not let yourself be overwhelmed by her winds.”

There was a shift in the air then, a surge of energy, cresting, falling, then cresting again, like waves buoying a ship. And once more, that unmistakable feeling of things inside her wrenching apart and recombining, settling, though it was slightly different this time, not as smooth a process. There was a hesitance in the energy at her right side, a minor tremble in Naya’s hands.

“There’s… a lot here,” Naya said, likely a gross understatement, if Isabela knew her own soul’s machinations.

A pull of the will to her left sent all the tiny fragments fluttering back into balance. “Yes, her storms have left much wreckage behind them, as I knew they would,” murmured the old seer. “But there is a trail if you know where to look.”

For a woman like Isabela, who prided herself on the inability of others to pin her down, feeling the crone take Naya on a tour through her very essence was disturbing, to say the least. The current through her body ebbed and flowed, left to right, then right to left, stirring bits and pieces around like dandelion seeds blown by a breeze.

“There’s so much more pain than I expected,” said the voice to her right, and Isabela felt it as much as she heard it, shadows winding behind her eyelids as if stirred by Naya’s hand.

“Do not take it into yourself. You are an observer only,” commanded the voice to her left.

There was a careful probing, then a sense of peace, sunlight breaking through the clouds after the rain. “Someone has left traces of themselves everywhere in here,” said a right voice.

A left voice: “A granite cliff. She must be strong indeed to weather a spirit like yours.”

 _Hawke_ , thought Isabela, and the name echoed back, reverberating through her head like she had screamed it into a canyon. It spread, ripples in a pond, returning a flood of emotions, and the spirits pulsing through her feasted on it, red explosions bleeding purple into a blue ocean, twisting, ripping, and something in the core of her being threatened to tear apart. And then the agony ceased, the waters calmed, and Isabela found she was on her knees, arms supported by the two seers.

“What was that?” asked the right voice, and it was Naya, Isabela remembered. She sounded frightened, the magic on her side quivering, breathless, if such things could breathe.

“The hurricane,” answered the old seer, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Her own magic was powerful, serene, smoothing over all the places it had disturbed. “You will need to learn to handle minds that fight back. Now, return everything where you found it.”

The pressure surging through Isabela’s skin receded as each shard of her being was picked up and put back into place, leaving only a soft lullaby, a warm embrace, before she was returned fully to the physical plane. She stood up, shaking off the residual magic tingles raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

Naya appeared utterly exhausted, her shoulders hunched forward, winded. Her grandmother, however, seemed completely unfazed by the experience. If anything, she looked proud she could still connect with the spirits better than her granddaughter.

“The gales are weaker than they were before,” the old seer declared, and Naya cast a sidelong glance at her, eyes wide in disbelief. “You’ve run aground enough times to begin to slow your fury. And this woman in the echoes, the one tattooed all over your spirit… is she here? I should like to meet one who can quell a soul as wild as yours.” The crone wheezed with laughter, and Naya stared at her, aghast at the very suggestion of another round of Seeing.

“Hawke? No, she’s not here. But she’s… you know she’s alive?” Isabela dared to ask, to hope. It was strange to think Hawke had left marks throughout her in such a way, but not entirely unexpected… or unpleasant, if she was being honest with herself.

The seer leaned on her staff as she considered the question, the thick gold rings on her bent, arthritic fingers glimmering in the candlelight. “The Sight does not work that way. I cannot use one person’s soul to read another. But I see her essence through the eyes of your own. And it tells me she is a pillar of stone. She will not fall easily.” She fixed Isabela with her gaze, twin storm clouds. “Do you remember what I said to you, _enwan?_ When your mother brought you here and demanded I break your spirit to better suit the weakness in her own?”

Of course she remembered. It had haunted her the last twenty years. “You said I would bring pain and destruction to everything I touched. And I have.” A bitter draught to swallow, yet she did, over and over. She used to hate the old woman, blaming her for every ache, but she couldn’t anymore. The _alye_ did not give birth to her soul, only read what was already there.

“No, child,” the seer chided gently, shaking her head. “Only those that could not withstand your winds. Just as the fire needs the water to quench her ravaging flames, so does the hurricane need the cliffs and mountains to resist her torrents. Hold and cherish those whose natures are strong enough to match your own.” To Isabela’s surprise, the seer offered a creaking bow of her own, which was quickly mirrored by Naya. “Thank you for training my apprentice. And keeping an old woman’s mind sharp,” she added with another cackle. “Isabela. That is the name you have chosen, yes? _Iku betimaan bela mil achoro_.”

“ _Bela mil, alye_ ,” Isabela said. She left, feeling as though she had fewer answers than when she entered.

* * *

Drinking games with pirates always seemed to end up the same way. Accusations of cheating, someone throwing furniture, crying over spilled grog. Pirates were a remarkably weepy bunch, honestly.

Well, she won, at least. Maybe. It was hard to tell. She was drunk, anyway. Very drunk. That counted as a win, didn’t it? And she didn’t get hit by the chair hurled by one very angry Captain Fabio when she made fun of both his name and his mother. Definitely a win.

She stumbled upstairs to her room, leaving the revelry to extinguish on its own without her, the seer’s words spinning through her sodden brain. Their connection during the reading was not purely unidirectional: she had felt the old woman’s presence flowing through her. It, or she, embodied water in all its forms, from the finest of mists to the most brutal of waves. Who, then, was the seer’s counterpart, her raging inferno? 

It was the drink. The drink was making her soft, sentimental. That must be why she was rummaging through her pack, all the way down to the bottom, digging through clothes and trinkets until her fingers tangled in a red strip of fabric.

Hawke. The cliffs, the mountains. Strong, steady, ubiquitous. Why did it have to be her? Always.

Against her better judgement—the sort she possessed far more of when sober—she uncorked the bottle of ink on her desk and fumbled with the quill, suddenly forgetting how to hold it. Her hands were useless, her fingers like seaweed trying to grip the bloody stupid thing, but she had to write, had to get it out before she imploded.

  
H—  


  
I can’t  
I love you  
I love you  
I love you  
I’m sorry

—I

She awoke hours later, head pounding, stomach lurching, neck aching from passing out on the desk, Hawke’s ribbon clutched in her hand. With a groan, she managed to lift her head, every joint in her body cracking in protest, the morning light piercing her skull with a vengeance, like a jilted lover. Something was stuck to her face. The letter fluttered to the desk, and though the handwriting was a mess and the ink smudged and her eyes bleary, she read the words and sighed.

The grog made her do it. That’s what it was. She crumpled the parchment in disgust and went to scrub the ink off her cheek. And possibly vomit.

* * *

Still sitting on docks, still watching the boats drifting in and out of port, still with no ship of her own. She needed some way to pass the days that wasn’t completely destructive, and if that meant standing guard at the quays like the despairing Kirkwall statues for hours at a time... well, she would do it. Though ports were much the same around Thedas, Llomerryn had some unique eccentricities, as it did with everything else. For one, it accepted ships at any hour, on a first-come, first-served basis. If there were no docks available, you dropped anchor further out and waited. Or, for those feeling more antagonistic, you could sidle up alongside a ship at dock and either plant hooks into her or simply ram her out of the way. The consequences could be dealt with later. Or never, if the drop-off was fast enough and the offended ship’s crew was too deep in their cups to retaliate. Related to that point, Isabela couldn’t recall ever seeing a harbormaster at port. Given the sort of left-of-legal activity occurring with frightening regularity all over Llomerryn, it was probably for the best. If there was anyone pirates despised more than each other, it was those in authority.

Unlike Kirkwall’s dusty tan limestone cut from the mountain itself, Llomerryn’s dock was paved with cobblestones, reds and blacks and browns forming dizzying mosaics, weaved with white and grey salt from endless blasts of ocean spray. The docks themselves were great wooden piers stretching into the ocean like sun rays, radiating haphazardly from the island’s shore, built nearly on top of one another over the years as the island became more than just a teardrop of land and palm trees in the sea. It was the only way to accommodate the sheer number of ships looking to dock. No one particularly wanted to haul their cargo down those immense, slippery piers, but the spots directly on the dock were prime real-estate, the ships there almost invariably flying the blindfolded skull of the Felicísima Armada.

It was strange to think about—she was still technically a part of the Armada. With their tattoo on her back, she had every right to a ship and a crew. After all, all pirates were equal upon the waves, or so the saying went. But that was the kind of idealistic bullshit only the greenest of swabbies believed. The Armada had a hierarchy, just like everything else, and while she hadn’t pissed off a real top dog, Castillon had enough clout to make things hard for her. And _she_ had enough former clout to be recognizable, more of a hindrance than a benefit these days. There weren’t many women with the skull in their skin. 

But she had been in Llomerryn for close to two years, right in the Armada’s backyard, with nary a peep. If Castillon or his lackeys were here in any capacity, she had managed to slip their notice. She thought—and it was far from the first time—the Maker must take a special delight in toying with her the way a cat plays with a mouse, giving it seemingly endless chances to escape, in reality only delaying death’s mercy.

She watched a schooner float into dock, the flag of Orlais fluttering atop her mainmast. It appeared to be angling toward a particular pier, upon which a smaller Antivan _fusta_ was already docked. Isabela sat up a little straighter from her spot on a forgotten barrel. If the schooner wanted that spot, the _fusta_ wouldn’t stand a chance. But the Antivans were still lugging crates of Maker-knows-what on their grueling journey to the wharf. One spotted the Orlesians on a crash course and raised the call of alarm to his mates. This could be good. Orlesians, even the pirates, weren’t quick to resort to violence as their first plan, but Antivans were, and their weapons were already drawn as they rushed down the pier to defend their ship.

Isabela was too far away to hear exactly which sorts of words were being exchanged among the crews. She was, however, close enough to hear the ensuing screams of pain as one of the Orlesians was shot through the chest with an arrow. Ah, pirates.

“Captain!” bellowed someone nearby in the King’s Tongue. The language was almost always used among sailing crews, a practicality, given the various nationalities present on ships. Isabela paid it no mind, until she heard it again, louder this time, right behind her.

“Captain Isabela!”

She turned, and before she had time to correct whoever it was that no, she was not, in fact, a captain and hadn’t been for entirely too long, she was swept into a crushing hug by someone very big and very strong and very bearded, lifting her up until her toes barely brushed the ground.

Isabela could not often be rendered speechless, but at that moment, with Dice’s arms around her, she was struck mute.

Eventually, he set her down, still keeping his hands on her shoulders, grinning ear to ear. “Look at you! You haven’t aged a day!” he exclaimed, and she couldn’t help but smile back, his joy infectious. “Still as beautiful as ever.”

“From anyone else, I’d assume that sort of flattery was an attempt to get me into bed,” she said, the jab coming easily, like the last twelve years hadn’t passed, like the last time she saw Dice wasn’t over the body of his slain lover. “You don’t look so bad yourself, you old sea dog.” 

And he didn’t. His beard and dreadlocks were shot through with gray, and he had a few extra lines around his eyes when he smiled, but the years had been kind to him, not at all blunting his debonair swagger. He looked healthy. More importantly, he looked _happy_. “Ah, well,” he said, running his thumb down his beard, “a little older, a little grayer. Maybe a little fatter.”

She stared at the man she once called brother, unable to do much else. Despite their shared native language, they were pirates first, and thus always spoke the Trade tongue with one another. After almost three years immersed in Rivaini, Isabela could feel her brain struggling to reverse its gears. And maybe it wasn’t just the language switch keeping her tongue-tied. 

“I can’t believe…” she managed to force out, scrambling for words, the right words, words she never imagined needing to say. “Don’t you hate me?” It was all she could think to ask.

Dice’s smile faded, his brow knit together in confusion. “Hate you? Bela. You’re my captain and my sister. How could I hate you?”

Isabela was grateful Dice pulled her into another embrace then, because it wasn’t right for a pirate to see his captain cry.

“Come on,” he said, patting her on the back. “Let’s get some tea. We have a lot to catch up on.”

Caught between a sniffle and a laugh, Isabela replied hoarsely, “Tea? Not beer? Or brandy? Shit, even wine?” She had never known Dice to drink anything without some alcohol in it somewhere.

He shrugged, embarrassed. “Been trying to cut back,” he explained, and it was only then that the years apart from him truly hit her.

Llomerryn, for an island dominated by piracy, had a surprising number of tea shops, tiny holes in the wall with wicker chairs and small, round tables that served nothing but tea and the usual accompaniments. It had become almost habit to avoid them, but Isabela thought she could finally handle _ihe_ if Dice was there. She couldn’t believe she continued to be so emotional about fucking _tea_ , of all things, after three years. It was silly. But a lot of things reminded her of Hawke still, stubborn remnants clinging to the banality of Isabela’s existence in Rivain. If it wasn’t tea, it was the wild dogs roaming the island, or the silver necklaces at jeweler’s stalls, or the persistent red flowers thriving in the cracks between flagstones and trailing up walls, the kind that couldn’t be stifled no matter how viciously cut down.

The tea shop Dice brought her to was exceptionally traditional, adhering to the old ways of serving _ihe_ with all its ceremonial flourishes, a clever ruse to make the drinker feel they were a guest in someone’s home rather than a customer of a business. A brazier at the front of the shop glowed at all hours, with a ceramic platter on top for gently toasting the spices and tea leaves. When sufficiently roasted and aromatic, the ingredients could be brushed into a stone mortar and crushed to a fine paste. The paste was then mixed into a long-necked teapot, though it more closely resembled a vase with a handle than the squat teapots of the south, and allowed to steep. The shop owner brought the teapot to the table, along with coconut milk and chunks of golden sugar, and poured the tea into handle-less clay cups, small enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand, careful not to mix any of the solids into the pour, and always leaving room for doctoring, because no one in their right mind drank _ihe_ straight.

Isabela found herself awash in a strange swirl of memories as she sipped the tea, different periods of her life blending together. Drinking properly prepared _ihe_ brought her back to childhood, to quiet mornings with the women of whatever village she and her mother had stumbled into at the time, never staying long enough to really know anyone, evanescent wanderers. But the smell of it, the concept of the tea itself, forced her to think of Hawke and Leandra, their etching of new definitions of “family” in her mind, Hawke’s shy smile when she admitted to importing the tea solely for Isabela’s benefit. Such a subtle thing, these attachments.

“Ah,” Dice sighed, his cup comically small in his enormous hands. “I’ve been stuck in Rialto the last six months, and their tea is absolute shit. So,” he said, a smirk playing around the edges of his mouth, nearly hidden by his mustache, “I’m supposed to hate you?”

“I—well, you, I mean—” Isabela stammered, rolling her teaspoon around in her hands. “We didn’t part on the best of terms,” she said weakly. “I did… something terrible to you. And I haven’t gone a day without regretting it, I swear it.” She didn’t tell him about the nightmares. She didn’t have to, because she knew he had them, too.

“You did what you had to do. Was I angry with you? Yes. But,” he added quickly as he caught her wince, “I wasn’t angry because you had to kill Bones. I was angry because you left me when I needed you most. I had to grieve alone.”

Shit. She hadn’t thought of it like that. It was so like her, though, to get caught up in the turmoil of the moment and not consider the future consequences. “I’m sorry, Dice,” she said, and it felt like dust, like nothing in comparison to how she felt.

“It’s all right, Captain. Let the past be past—” 

“—and we bastards’ll last,” Isabela finished, raising her cup. “To Bones.”

“Aye, to Bones. _Maenmuo zu hare_.” He waited for her to finish her drink. “Now, the real story is, where did you go when you left Antiva City? I’d heard bits and pieces, of course. Lots of tavern gossip about a lady captain from Rivain with the best pair of tits you’ve ever seen terrorizing the eastern seas. Didn’t know who else it could be.”

Isabela snorted. “Right, that’s me. A busty terror. Let’s see…” she thought back to those whirlwind years after Bones’s death, when she was too messed up to live but too lucky to die. “I joined the Raiders. Made a lot of coin. Lost it all. Went to jail a few times. Nicked a pair of King Natale’s knickers. Pissed off some Raider prick named Castillon. Stole a Qunari holy book from the Orlesians—”

“Wait, that was _you?_ ” Dice interrupted, looking both surprised and impressed. 

“The one and only,” she said, beginning to get caught up in the story. “The Qunari weren’t especially pleased about it, as you can imagine. They gave chase, I took the Siren’s Call into a storm, wrecked her and ended up in Kirkwall.”

Dice grimaced. “Kirkwall? Bad enough you lost your ship.”

And here was where her tale truly changed course, but she chose to gloss over it. “I spent about four years there, couldn’t take it anymore, stole a horse and rode all the way up here. I worked on a fishing boat for a year or so near Afsaana, and I’ve been in Llomerryn since. Still no ship.” She drank her tea and tried not to think of the details she skipped in those four years in Kirkwall. “All right, your turn.”

“Well, I also joined the Armada, once I acquired a ship of my own,” he said with a grim smile, flashing the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. “They haven’t given me much trouble yet, though I’ve never been as good at getting into trouble as you. I do my work, I take care of my crew, same old shit. Oh, and I met a lovely man in Antiva,” he finished, looking positively bashful. “Miguel. We married last year.” He looked so happy Isabela could just about ignore the ache in her chest.

“I can’t believe you married an Antivan,” she teased. “After all they’ve put us through!”

“I know, I know.” Dice chuckled. “But he learned how to sail and curse in Rivaini, so he must be one of the good ones. I bet even you’d like him. He’s always been… understanding, you know. About Bones. Without him, I’m not sure I would’ve been able to move on. He’s a good man.”

“I bet. You’ve always had good taste.”

“But what about you?” he said, raising his eyebrows, and she knew what was coming. “Has anyone been able to tie down the Queen of the Eastern Seas?”

“Oh, you know me. Can’t be tied down when I never stay for more than a night.” The lie came easy enough, but she caught herself touching the red fabric tied around her right arm without meaning to, and when she saw the smile all but splitting Dice’s face, she braced herself for the inevitable. She wasn’t even sure why she started wearing the damn thing, especially after that horrific drunken love letter. Balls, this wasn’t how you got over a person at all. But then again, she supposed, she never had to get over anyone before. It was very new territory.

“There _is_ someone, isn’t there? I knew it.” Dice slapped the table with his hand, rattling their plates and attracting curious glances from the other patrons. “A woman, I’ll bet my ship. You always had a soft spot for the girls.”

He knew her too well, the bastard. Her face was suddenly feeling quite warm, and it couldn’t all be blamed on the tea. Dammit. “There’s not… I don’t know. It’s complicated.” 

“Do tell,” he said, eyes twinkling, enjoying her discomfort entirely too much.

“I met a woman while I was in Kirkwall.” That didn’t sound nearly complicated enough, but it was the truth. She met a woman, and nothing was the same after.

“Aha. You _were_ awful quick to skip over those four years there.”

“Yes, well, she… we got close. And I got scared. And so I ran all the way to Rivain.” It sounded so stupid when she said it out loud.

“That’s not the whole story, is it? I know you’ve never been fond of commitment, but I can’t imagine you’d run halfway across Thedas because a girl gave you warm fuzzy feelings.”

“No, there’s more to it. When I stole that Qunari book… they washed up into Kirkwall with me. And Par Vollen wouldn’t send rescue until they got the book back. And Castillon would kill me if _I_ didn’t get the book back. I spent four years trying to find that fucking thing with both sides breathing down my neck. And I couldn’t tell anyone about it, because then they’d know how much I completely cocked it up.” She heaved a sigh. “I ended up finding it, eventually.”

“And you’re still alive, so I assume Castillon got it back?”

“No. I was halfway to Ostwick when I spontaneously grew a conscience and brought it back to the bloody Qunari.”

“That’s… surprising.”

“Well, it was pretty fucking surprising to me, too. In the meantime, the horned bastards had decided to burn down Kirkwall. So I came back, thinking I was going to do something right for once in my life. Then they decided they needed to take me to Par Vollen for punishment and turn me into a slave. And that,” she said, setting her tea down and placing both palms on the table, “is when this woman I met decided she was going to duel the Arishok for my life.”

Dice put a hand up. “Hold on. Your woman is _Marian Hawke?_ The one who killed the Arishok?”

“She’s not my—” Isabela pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t worth arguing about. “How do you know that?” she asked, because she hadn’t heard a whisper about Hawke or the Arishok or Kirkwall since she crossed the border into Rivain—nothing but her own endless thoughts.

“I don’t stop near Kirkwall often, but news like that? Word gets around. The Qunari got all in a tizzy over it.”

“So you’re telling me she’s alive?”

“Well, no one said anything about her being dead. So, let me get this straight,” he said, ticking off a count on one finger, then two. “Your lover kills the Arishok to save you and you... run away to Rivain? It’s not adding up for me, Captain.”

“Hawke, she—” There they were, those insidious black spots in her recollection flooding back in, now in full color. Her breath caught in the back of her throat. “I watched her get stabbed clean through the gut and out the back by that beast before he died. She fell to the ground, and she didn’t move, and there was just… there was so much blood.” Three years wasn’t enough to dull the memories, and she could feel the water rushing into her lungs, turbulent, cold. “I couldn’t…”

“Bela, love.” Dice took her shaking hands within his own. “It’s okay. I understand.” Of course he understood. Who else could?

She fought, remembering how to breathe, forcing the air into her chest until the shadows retreated from the corners of her mind. “It felt like I was just repeating the past. That my stupid mistakes were going to kill someone I cared for.” There was a silent “again” at the end of the sentence she knew Dice would hear. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You were scared,” Dice said, and surely he knew what happened when Isabela was well and truly frightened: she ran, as far and as fast as she could.

“Of course I was bloody scared. For as long as I can remember, I’ve seen the shit that happens to people who stay near me for too long. And I’m not even sure I can help it. You know, my mother took me to the seer on this island years ago, when I was still a girl. She read me and said, ‘ _Zu ekhaimmiri ize_.’ And I swear on the planks of my sunken ship, those words have haunted me my entire life.”

Dice whistled. “A hurricane? That… explains a lot.”

“I went back to see her since I've been here. The _alye_. A few months ago. She wanted to read me again, can you believe it? She said…” Isabela tried to remember the seer’s words, buried somewhere in the depths of emotions evoked by the reading, so insignificant by comparison. “That my winds had slowed down since before, or something. And she saw Hawke everywhere in there. That she’s _aankiri nkumil_. Does that mean anything to you?” 

Dice had always been more religiously-inclined than her, though that wasn’t an especially difficult feat, given Isabela did not give a damn about any sort of supernatural beings (and she hoped the feeling was mutual). His grandmother was the seer of his home on the eastern coast of the peninsula, one of the countless tiny fishing villages kept penned in between the ocean and the mountains, isolated from the Qun and the Chantry both, keeping old traditions alive when they had begun to wither and die in other parts of the country.

“ _Aankiri nkumil_. Granite cliffs, hm? And hurricanes…” Dice tipped his chair back onto two legs, a dangerous feat for a man of his size, but the chair held. “My gran told me about something like that. That, for whatever reason, the spirits touch some people more than others.”

Oh, that was lovely. Nothing good ever came of spirits mucking around in mortal affairs, Isabela was sure of it. And she certainly didn’t welcome being a magnet for one as destructive as the hurricane. 

“Well, I’d appreciate it if they could keep their spirit-y hands off me, because I certainly didn’t ask for it. It feels like a curse,” she grumbled.

“It’s not really a curse.” Dice took a sip of his tea and seemed to reconsider. “Well, maybe a little. You get touched by the spirits, the marks you leave on the world are just a bit stronger than what the rest of us blokes can do. For good or ill. There’s power in it.”

“Ugh. If I had to get groped by a spirit, why couldn’t it be one of… fuck, I don’t know… rainbows? Puppies?”

“You think the Queen of the Eastern Seas would be tied to a spirit of anything less than a hurricane?” His gold tooth flashed beneath his beard. “Or the woman who slayed the Arishok in single combat? That’s a mountain if I ever heard one.”

“I didn’t ask for this.” Why did life continue to insist on giving her responsibilities? It was cruel, and she didn’t appreciate being the butt of some spirit’s joke. Didn’t they have better things to do?

“We rarely do when spirits are involved.” He looked at her then, really looked at her, absorbing the last twelve years of space between them: the fine line between her brows, the threads of gray hiding under her bandana, all those flights of stairs she had pitched herself down. “The _alye_ was right. You’ve changed since I last saw you. Not in a bad way,” he added as a precaution.

She shrugged. “I’m just old now.”

“No, it’s not that. You used to be a woman with a death wish. We’d do jobs with you, or even just go into a bar, and I was never sure if I was going to walk out with all my limbs. It was like you were... daring the world to end you. But I look at you now, and I don’t see that Isabela anymore. I see a woman trying to find something to live for.”

She knew what he was angling for, but she wouldn’t bite. Maybe she wasn’t actively courting destruction anymore, but she wasn’t searching for a purpose, either. She just… was. Wasn’t that enough? “I can’t go back to the Marches. I belong out on the waves.” He had to know that, didn’t he? He was a pirate, too.

“Let me give you an offer then, Captain. Join my crew. Gods know I could use someone who knows her way around a ship as well as you. I’m leaving in a week to make a drop in Kirkwall. If you want, you can get dropped off, too. Or you can stay on with me and my boys. We can tear up the seas like old times. And if this Castillon wants to start a fight… he goes through me, first,” he finished, deadly serious.

Fuck blood relations. She didn’t need them. This man was her brother. 

“What did I ever do to deserve someone as wonderful as you?” she asked.

“Ah, I just can’t stand seeing a pirate without a ship. It’s pathetic. If you’re ready to come back to the life, my Gilded Skull will take you. But honestly, it sounds like you still have an anchor dropped in Kirkwall.”

Isabela didn’t want to think of anchors or Kirkwall or whatever other cloying metaphor Dice was trying to concoct. She only wanted to think of sea breezes and salty spray and not having to work on a damned fishing boat to feel them. 

“You’re leaving in a week, you said? Good. I need off this island.” If she could continue to live for the moment, she could refuse to confront the Gilded Skull’s destination—and what it truly meant to her—for a little while longer, even as that red scrap tied around her bicep reminded her every minute, every second.

* * *

She went back to the tea shop the next day. After three years of evasion, she felt she owed _ihe_ an apology, considering it would likely be some time before she could have it again. And frankly, preparing for an all-day shopping spree at _Anahia_ , she could probably use a strong cup of tea. As she wrote a list of things she would need for her journey at sea, she set aside an extra piece of parchment.

  
Hawke—

Llomerryn is strange. 

I’ve run into my mother, the old seer, and now Dice. At this point, I’m expecting to turn around and see the reanimated corpse of my dead husband. ~~Or you.~~

Is it supposed to mean something? I don’t believe in fate or “the Maker’s plan” or any of that shit, but I still can’t help but feel something brought me here, something bigger than myself. Did I need to come here to understand where I belong?

When I left Kirkwall to come to Rivain, I never once thought, “I’m coming home.” What is home? For years, a ship felt like home to me, no matter where it was bound. Now I don’t know. I feel restless. Is home just a place where someone needs you?

Dice thinks you’re alive. That makes me feel a lot of things, and I don’t know if I can bring myself to write any of them.

Well, maybe I’ll try.

Ni aankiri nkumil ize  
Ni obi ize

Someday I hope I can be brave enough to tell you what that means.

Sorry for the rambling. ~~I don’t know why I’m apologizing. You’re never seeing this, anyway.~~

—Isabela

Folding it in half, she glanced around the tea shop to see if anyone was paying attention, then pressed her lips to the letter. When the shop owner went around back, Isabela slipped the parchment into the brazier’s flames, fuel for _ihe_.

* * *

The beach where she drowned, like seemingly everything else dredged up from her past during this sojourn in Rivain, remained largely unchanged. She hadn’t expected it to; it was hardly a popular spot, given its small size and multitude of pockmarked boulders taking up valuable space for more sand. The birds were still there: big, noisy seagulls and tiny sandpipers, all hopping along the gaps in the rocks where the tide pooled, probing for crabs and worms and other delicacies. The palm trees were the same, too, swaying gently in the breeze, casting massive sunset shadows over the beach. And the ocean, of course, was always there, enduring, comforting in its constant oscillations.

Maybe the land and the water were the same, but what of her? Had she changed? Dice said she had. So did the seer. That somehow she was calmer, more focused than the chaotic whirlwind she used to be. Perhaps it was simply part of the aging process. She wasn’t a recalcitrant child anymore, convinced the world owed her every shiny, useless bauble she desired. Everyone had to grow up sometime, didn’t they? Even her.

But that explanation was not especially satisfying. After all, it had been almost two decades since she had seen her mother, and Hari was still the same bitter, pitiful wretch who had sold her to Luis. Why had her mother remained stagnant while Isabela, if not grew, at least adapted?

Perhaps it was all the travel. Or all the trauma. Evolution by force. Sitting on a rocky outcropping, looking down, she thought she could see the spot where the riptide pulled her under, the spot where she tried to drink herself to death. Who was that woman? So far down in a hole, unable to see light, scraping rock bottom, abandoned. She stood in that ocean and begged for an end. And when life gave her a second, a third, a hundred more chances, she cursed her luck and threw herself harder into the jaws of death, desperate for the final release of oblivion. Running, always running. Waking up each morning with no direction, not one fucking inkling of where she would end up by nighttime or what would happen in between. Did that make her happy?

 _Sounds like you still have an anchor dropped in Kirkwall_. Did she? The thought was a frightening one. Was it a tether? Another leash? But it didn’t feel like being tied down. Not like before.

She pulled her daggers from their sheaths, her faithful companions since the day she stole them. Their grips felt so right in her hands, like they were molded for every crease of her palms, every tendon, every swirl in her fingertips. The gold paint was beginning to dull, the engravings worn by years of use, years of murder. They were effective weapons. She wasn’t sure they would be more than pretty decorations at first; he had never used them, choosing to keep them in his desk, collecting dust. It was a waste, she remembered thinking, to own such tools and not put them to use. But he wouldn’t swat a mosquito if it landed on him, much less stab someone with a knife. So gentle, so kind, so unlike any other man she had ever known.

Heartbreaker. Backstabber. Did those words still describe her? Would he choose to paint her with those words, if he were to materialize on the island like all her other ghosts? She was so young; they both were. He and his brother had come to Antiva for the same romantic reasons most young men came to Antiva: the art, the music, the wine, the women. Shockingly innocent and sheltered, he was immediately enamored with the danger and worldliness she offered, and she was equally enamored with not being treated like chattel. But for all his softness, all his acceptance, she was still too damaged. She could never fully trust him, leaving parts of herself, the parts she was most ashamed of, locked away. So when he proposed, it was not her he wanted to marry, but a mirage, all the dreams of an infatuated young man, a picture placed on a pedestal. She realized then, holding his daggers in hands stained by the blood of hundreds, she was not truly honest with him about who she was until she ran into his brother’s arms. 

But here she was, fifteen years later. Different from the woman in love with the Starkhaven man. Different from the woman swept away by high tide, praying for the ocean’s embrace. She was Isabela, with all her flaws, her insecurities, her sins, her virtues, her strengths, the good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, carved from marble by the hands of time. It was a name she chose to help run from her past, but now it _was_ her, every scar and blemish. Such permanence used to scare her. Used to.

Flipping the daggers into an overhand grip, she kissed one pommel, then the other. He was a beautiful man, but he would never withstand the hurricane, would only be devoured by her spirit. Sand, not granite.

“I’m sorry, Aiden,” she whispered, letting his name pass her lips for the first time since she left him under the olive tree. “I couldn’t make things right for you, but maybe…” She ran her thumbs over the hooked edge of the pommels one last time. “Maybe I can be better this time.”

With a deep breath, she let him go, flinging the daggers into the burning red sun sinking into the sea, an offering for the waves, and broke the last shackles of guilt chaining her heart.

She thought of Dice’s offer. She thought of the anchor, her anchor, and found her initial apprehension washing away. Maybe it was time to stop drifting.

* * *

It wasn’t easy to find a spot on the Skull not infested with rowdy sailors waiting for the signal to shove off, but she managed to intimidate a few greenhorns into pausing their dice game and clearing the berths long enough for her to find a table and scratch out a letter.

  
Hawke—

I’m coming home.

—Isabela

She waited for the ink to dry, then folded the parchment in half, made triangles out of the top, and creased the sides until she had a small paper boat, like the ones she made as a child, sent off into countless ponds and puddles, full of innocent dreams.

The air was still when she returned above decks, the bane of sailors but a boon for her, at least for the moment. She passed dozens of curious stares and made for the bow. Leaning over the deck railing, she let the paper boat fall, drifting lazily through the air until it gently touched down into the water, a tiny twin to the galleon beside it, floating south.


	21. Act 3, Part 1: "The Flood"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joshua Hyslop: "The Flood"  
>  _And though I do not know my heart_  
>  _But I know myself into my bones_  
>  _But if my bones should come apart_  
>  _Then I'll have nothing left to give_  
>  _But if you take me in_  
>  _Coming home again_

Dice addressed his crew from the Skull’s forecastle as they prepared to shove off. It was a tactic Isabela always used, and as she watched him pace from rail to rail, his coattails billowing behind him in the hot north wind, she saw so many echoes of her time as his captain. She felt a strange sense of pride. He had come so far.

“Men,” he bellowed, his voice a force of its own, deep and powerful enough to carry from bow to stern. “We make for Kirkwall. If the wind favors us, we’ll be at the docks just shy of two weeks time. This is to be a _quick_ drop, understand? Little birds tell me the climate in Kirkwall lately is _not_ conducive to smuggling lyrium, so we will be in and out, then back north with none the wiser.”

He motioned to her, and she stepped forward, head held high, slipping so easily back into the captain’s role it was as if the last seven years never happened, as if this was her Siren’s Call and not another man’s ship.

“We will have a guest with us,” Dice said, nodding to Isabela beside him. “This is Captain Isabela. She is my equal and you will address and respect her as such. If she gives you an order, you will obey it. If I hear any of you lot causing problems for her…” He spared her a glance, she cocked an eyebrow, and he smiled. “Well, she’s fully capable of kicking your sorry asses herself, so I’d suggest being good little boys. We clear?”

The crew shouted their “aye captain”s, Dice commanded anchors aweigh, and they were off.

Isabela could only stare at the rapidly shrinking island for a few moments before her eyes were drawn to the horizon, that infinite line straddling shades of blue. It was a small jump to the tip of the bow from the forecastle, and she wedged herself as far forward as she could, grasping the rails on either side of her waist. Her eyes closed, and she allowed herself a moment to take it all in: the sharp scent of brine, the shouts of sailors and cries of gulls, the wind stinging her face and rippling the sails, the creaking of the boards beneath her feet, the oiled wood under her fingers. And over it all, the roar of water against the hull as the Gilded Skull’s prow parted the ocean.

Dice put his arm around her shoulders as she brushed away tears. He said nothing, and he didn’t have to, because he knew.

“I knew I missed this, but I didn’t realize just how much until now,” she said, leaning her head against his chest.

“There’s nothing in the world like it,” he replied.

How long had it been? Seven years? Seven years dry-docked, with a brief interlude on those pathetic little fishing boats that didn’t really count. And longer still since she had sailed with someone she cared about, someone who hadn’t become another tally on her ribs. 

She tilted her head to look up at him. “I imagine this would look awfully romantic to anyone who didn’t know better.”

Dice gave a bark of laughter and wrapped his other arm around her. “Well, I always said if I ever wanted to try women, you would be first on my list.”

“You wouldn’t know the first thing to do with a woman. We’re delicate flowers.”

“ _You’re_ a delicate flower?” He leaned back and looked her up and down, as though attempting to find some floral aspect in the decidedly indelicate pirate in front of him.

“Sometimes,” she said, on the edge of a pout. “But right now I’m not anything but fucking blind. Damn hair!”

The wind, so perfect for filling sails, also proved perfect for whipping her hair directly into her face. She had failed to cut it since she left Kirkwall, and she couldn’t remember the last time she let it grow so long, falling between her shoulder blades. It was a nuisance. Growling, she bunched as much of it as she could into her hands, a bouquet of black curls, and held it behind her head, but rogue strands refused to be contained.

“Come down to my quarters and I can take care of it.”

She stared at him, aghast. “What, you want to chop it off with your sabre?”

“I _meant_ braid it, you banshee,” he said, grabbing her by the elbow and gently pushing her astern. “Besides, Miguel will want to meet you.”

“He’s here? What did I tell you about bringing your lovers on your ship?” She told him _don’t, that’s a terrible idea_ more times than she could count. And now, to her great consternation, she was beginning to understand his point of view.

“I guess I’m just not a very good listener, Captain.”

If one couldn’t guess the Skull was Antivan-made from abovedecks, even the most nautically-ignorant could figure it out by the look of the captain’s quarters. Even the Orlesians couldn’t top the extravagance. The room, which spanned the entire width of the stern, was effectively split in two: the more prominent space served as both a sitting room and a commanding office, with brass-studded mahogany chairs and a polished oak table filling the center, a smaller writing desk and bookshelf adjacent. Lavish rugs covered nearly every inch of floorboard, chasing away the nighttime chill at sea, and lanterns swaying from chains in the rafters could keep the room well-lit when sunlight wasn’t streaming through the full span of arched windows lining the front of the room. The second, smaller space, separated by a collapsible partition, likely held little more than the bed, though, again, this was an Antivan ship, and that bed was likely as luxurious as everything else. And gilded. Everything had to be gilded. How else would anyone know you were a captain in Antiva?

A man leaned against the table, a man she assumed was Miguel. He was tall, though not as tall as Dice, with a mop of dark brown curls graying at the temples and a close-trimmed beard. He beamed when he saw her, and grasped both her hands within his own before giving her a kiss on each cheek with so much flourish she had to fight to keep from rolling her eyes. Bloody Antivans.

“Ah, Isabela,” he said, still holding her hands. “It is a pleasure. _Maramila-ka egwe-ka ize, ana nago._ ”

 _As deadly as you are beautiful, I’m sure_. Cute. A nice attempt at impressing her. Well, two could play at that game. She reached far back in her memory, fumbling for a language long since packed away.

“Miguel, _verdad?”_ She waited for his nod and carefully arranged the words in her head. “ _Espero que esa boca haga mas que escupir bellas palabras. Por el bien de Dice._ ”

Miguel blinked once, then twice, and sputtered with surprised laughter, glancing at Dice, Isabela, then Dice again, as though he wasn’t sure what to do, his smile shrinking to a confused grimace.

“I told you she was a feisty one,” Dice remarked, offering a one-shouldered shrug instead of coming to his husband’s rescue.

Composing himself, Miguel brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “I assure you, this mouth has many talents.” He retreated to his spot against the table. “When did you learn _la lengua del vulgo?"_ he asked.

Isabela took a seat at the other side of the table, resisting the urge to smirk. The vulgar language, indeed; that double-entendre never failed to amuse her. “I was married to an Antivan once,” she said lightly. “Picked up some words along the way.” It was an evasion, of course. Some stories didn’t need to be told.

It was harder than she thought, avoiding comparisons. It wasn’t fair to Miguel to match him up against Bones; she knew that, but one man was a stranger, the other was her brother. Bones was always so relaxed, accepting whatever life threw his way with a quiet smile and a shrug. It was hard to believe he managed to escape Ostwick’s Circle, equally hard to believe he took to pirate life like a fish to water. But he was always ready to scrap when the two wilder ones in their trio caused trouble—though it was usually just Isabela. He was their shadow, fixing every wound, keeping them alive to fight another day. Even after his death, he lived on in their skin: in Isabela’s red tally and the anchor on Dice’s neck.

But who was Miguel? She would have to find out, see if he was worthy of that ring on his finger.

“Okay. Now you have to tell me how you two met,” she said.

Miguel’s face lit up. “Why, I believe it was on this very ship, wasn’t it?”

“Aye,” said Dice from behind her. Carefully, he used his fingers and a small comb to try and untangle the knots in her mane. All she could do was try not to wince every time he hit a snag.

“This _was_ my ship, you see,” Miguel continued, gesturing around the extravagant cabin. “He stole it. And my heart along with it, apparently.”

“Ugh,” Isabela groaned. “That’s disgusting. Please continue.”

“No one was supposed to be on the ship,” Dice explained. “We’d grab it, cut and run, offload the cargo to one of our buyers, done. Wasn’t even planning on keeping the boat, honestly. But then this little bugger was hiding in the berths with his tail ‘twixt his legs.”

“I wasn’t hiding!” Miguel protested.

“Yes you were.” Dice pitched his voice at least two octaves higher and adopted an absurd caricature of an Antivan accent. “‘Oh please, Mister Big Bad Pirate, please don’t kill me! You can have the ship!’” He snickered. Apparently content with his untangling of Isabela’s hair, he separated it into three bunches and began to braid it together.

“Well, as it turns out, being a pirate is far more interesting than being a merchant. And being _with_ a pirate is far more interesting than whatever boring noble my family would have preferred me to marry.”

Isabela thought of Leandra then, with her long list of Hightown suitors for Hawke, and smiled. “So, what you’re saying is, he kidnapped you, and you said, ‘Oh yes, I am in love now?’”

“Is it really considered kidnapping if you wanted to be stolen?” Miguel asked, raising his eyebrows at Dice. “I couldn’t resist the chance for adventure. How long ago was that, _amor?_ Eight years? And it took you seven more to ask for my hand.”

“Yes, well, pirates take a long time to commit,” Dice said sheepishly, stifling a laugh, and he gave Isabela’s braid a tug. She elbowed him in return. 

But he wasn’t done needling her. “That thing tied around your arm… it’s hers, isn’t it? Marian’s?” He tapped the band with his comb. Lately, it rarely came off. She had even started wearing it to sleep, to her embarrassment. Somehow, the longer she spent away from Hawke, the harder she wanted to hold onto reminders.

“She goes by Hawke; I think I’ve only heard her family call her Marian. And yes, it’s hers.”

“So, you’re going to give it back to her, yes?” Miguel asked, and he _would_ ask that, because Antivans were all bloody hopeless romantics. 

“I…” she touched the fabric. She had two weeks to decide. She could go back. Give up the pirate life, live in that horrible city again, throw herself at the mercy of a woman who might have very well moved on. Apologize to everyone she had wronged—and it was a long, long list. 

Or, she could pretend the last seven years didn’t happen. Take back her old life. Sail the seas once more. Maybe find herself another ship eventually. Have her brother and his man and his crew alongside her. It didn’t seem like a difficult decision. 

“I don’t know.”

\------

She could smell Kirkwall before she saw it. That delightful aroma of too many people crammed in too small a space mixed with rotting fish and piss and raw sewage. Maybe a dead body or ten.

If she didn’t know better, she could swear she was seasick. But it wasn’t the rocking of the waves or the pungent scent of Kirkwall causing her stomach to heave and sweat to bead across her forehead. Two weeks had passed far too quickly, and she could no longer dodge the decision placed in front of her: stay or go.

Dice found her curled up in the berths, her head in her hands.

“Hey,” he said, crouching down and placing a hand on her shoulder. “Bela. What’s going through that head of yours?”

“I don’t know what to do,” she muttered, fingertips splayed across her forehead, thumbs to her cheekbones. 

But that wasn’t true. She knew. She had made her decision as soon as he extended the offer in the tea shop. What hounded her wasn’t the choice, but the consequences of that choice.

Dice squeezed himself onto the floor beside her, folded nearly in half to avoid knocking his head on the top bunks. 

“Look at me,” he said, and she did, wet eyes blurring his features. “There is no wrong choice here. You know I’ll support you, no matter what.”

“I’m counting on my having changed and everything else staying the same. What kind of terrible logic is that?” Worse, even if she _could_ accept she had changed, she was dependent on being able to convince everyone else of it, too. A task made monumentally harder by all the times she had stuck her nose in the air and claimed people didn’t change, that _she_ didn’t change. _Well done, Isabela._

“Well, the first half seems right. The second half is the terrible logic,” he said, smiling as she sighed in dismay. “People are always growing and changing and adapting. But it doesn’t mean their changes won’t be in your favor. Let them see you. The real you. Let them see the woman I see, the one trying to do the right thing.”

She kissed him on the cheek, his beard coarse against her lips. “You’re too sweet to be a pirate.”

“All the people I’ve killed or stolen from over the years might disagree with you.”

“I’m going to miss you.” Three weeks was not enough to make up for twelve missed years, even if they stayed awake into the wee hours of the morning every night, her and Dice and Miguel, trading stories and filling in the gaps from their time apart. She even warmed up to Miguel eventually, at least when he stopped trying to impress her. The first night he got a proper dig in at her expense was the night she told him she approved of him being her brother’s husband. She thought he might cry all over her then and there.

“Same. I wish this didn’t have to be such a rush job. I want to meet this woman of yours. Bring her to Rivain when you get the chance. We’ll get her a tattoo and teach her the fine arts of Rivaini cussing and sailing.”

Damn him, now she was thinking about it. “She’d like that.”

“Thought so. You wouldn’t fall in love with someone who wouldn’t.” With great care and no small amount of muttered curses, he extricated his bulk from the cramped space between Isabela and the crew bunks. “All right, we’re about to dock. Let’s go grab all that shit you brought with you.”

As the Skull’s crew delivered their smuggled crates of lyrium, they also delivered a woman to Kirkwall’s docks— a woman nervous yet determined, starting the walk towards home.

\------

The docks were the same. Maybe this is how it would go, she thought. Mental checklists of everything still there. It was surprising how quickly Kirkwall was able to rebuild within three years from what the Qunari had destroyed, especially given the viscount’s death no doubt threw monetary decisions into disarray. Then again, the docks always seemed in a perpetual state of disrepair even before being set on fire. But the limestone would endure, the sailors would still dock their ships, and the world would move on.

That giant statue, though. That was new. A gargantuan target for seagull and pigeon shit, that’s what it was. Who was that even supposed to be? She looked up at it, puzzled. It was a human, maybe. Could be a hurlock, honestly. Who would pay for something like that? And why was it in the docks, of all places? She read its inscription.

_Marian Hawke - First Champion of Kirkwall - Defended the city against the Qunari invasion in the First Battle of Kirkwall - 9:34 Dragon_

Oh. Isabela looked up at it again—at _her_ , again—towering, and didn’t see a statue anymore, but a person. Larger than life. Larger than her. A Champion, capitalized. Isabela knew it was a Marcher title, knew it was one rarely given out. 

It made her feel… many things. It wasn’t like Hawke didn’t deserve it, of course. There were times when she seemed like the only competent person in the entire city. Without the respect of the Arishok, she never would have earned the right to that duel, and it wasn’t hard to imagine how many more lives would have been lost. Kirkwall owed her much.

Hawke’s ascendance to Hightown had been hard enough to swallow. But this? This was so much more. Hawke was more a symbol than a person now, if this statue was to be believed. Untouchable. And what did that make Isabela? That thought was an uncomfortable one, so she chose to set it aside, turning away from that stone-faced Champion and heading for Lowtown.

\------

The unease lurking in her mind from the docks washed away entirely the moment she stepped foot in the Hanged Man. There was Norah, sweeping about with her tray of drinks, taking nips from her flask when she thought Corff wasn’t looking. And he was still behind the bar, penning stories between pours of ale and ladles of slop. Even one of the regulars was there at his spot by the fire. She never did learn his name.

“Isabela!” Norah shrieked, dropping her tray on a table so quickly it was a wonder the mugs didn’t spill everywhere. She crossed the bar and threw her arms around Isabela, nearly knocking the wind out of her. “By Andraste’s sacred knickers, woman, where have you been? Somewhere sunny, by the looks of that tan you’ve got.”

“What, a woman can’t take a vacation every once in a while? And I’ve always been tan,” Isabela said, pleasantly surprised by this display of affection. She and Norah had been friends of a sort, she supposed, but not—she had assumed—of a sort that warranted this kind of greeting. It was nice.

“More tan, then! A vacation is when you run off to Antiva for the winter! You’ve been gone for… how long’s it been, Corff?”

He shrugged and filled a tankard from the keg behind the bar. “Long enough for the city to go completely mad. I imagine the mages and templars will put us in another war any day now. You might wish you didn’t come back to Kirkwall.”

It made sense. The tensions between those two groups were hard to miss over the years, even if the Qunari served as the more personal threat to her existence. But Meredith and Orsino, even if their bickering brought the whole city down around them, weren’t capable of turning this return into a regret. Only one person could do that.

“I don’t suppose you have a room available for the night?” Isabela asked. She hadn’t thought of where she would stay. Little details.

“You’re in luck. Varric’s been paying for your room every month since you left. No one’s used it.”

“What?” Surely she misheard.

“Yeah, I didn’t get it, either.” He passed the drink to Norah. “But he said you’d be back, and I guess he was right.”

Isabela remembered her last words to him. _Fuck you. You don’t know me_. There was a crushing sensation, a feeling of weight pressing down on her, and she couldn’t blame it all on her overfilled pack.

Up the stairs, around the corner, second door to the right. Empty, just like she left it, with fresh sheets on the bed. She took out the maps, the book of poems, the earrings, the ship in a bottle, everything she carried with her for the last three years, and put them all back where they belonged, reversing time. Her clothes went back in the trunk by the bed, her writing supplies, the desk. Untying the red ribbon around her arm, she set it on the table.

She sat down on the bed. That same slight lumpiness, same sag in the middle. Was this home? It felt comfortable. It felt predictable, in that warm way she never expected predictability would feel. That comfort weighed on her eyelids, her shoulders, and she let it envelop her, whisking her away to sleep.

\------

It was well past sunset when she awoke, her room covered in shadows. Sleep would be coy with her the rest of the night, she knew. So she did what she always did when slumber proved hard to hold onto: she went downstairs for a drink.

And when she descended the stairs to the bar, there was Hawke, drinking alone.

Isabela froze, the air fleeing her chest as Hawke turned her head and their eyes met. There was a brief flash of confusion, a briefer flash of relief, then Hawke’s face turned to stone.

It was hard to reconcile the alive, healthy-looking woman in front of her with the body bleeding out on the throne room floor. Harder still to reconcile the cold mask Hawke wore now with the way she used to look at her. But she let those contradictions lie and walked to where Hawke sat at the table, and stood as Hawke stayed seated.

“Hey.” Isabela didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t planned this far ahead. “It’s good to see you.” An understatement, by any stretch of the imagination.

“You too,” said Hawke, though it didn’t look like it at all.

Should she sit? Force herself through more hollow pleasantries? _I noticed you healed from being impaled. Well done. So you’re the Champion now? How’s that? Still living in that estate or did they buy you an even bigger one?_

There was no use dodging the obvious. Isabela laid her cards out.

“Hawke. Look. I’m sorry. For leaving,” she said, and it didn’t come out as smoothly as she hoped, but there it was. “It was a stupid and selfish thing to do, and… and I’m not sure I can ever apologize enough, or make it up to you, but I’m going to try.”

Hawke looked up from her drink, looked up at Isabela, and her eyes were empty, even as her words pantomimed reassurance: “It’s okay. You’re back now, aren’t you?”

“No, it’s not okay, it’s—” Isabela fumbled for what to say. Why was Hawke accepting this? 

A smile, thin and controlled. “It’s fine. Water under the bridge.” 

Panic started to crawl up the back of Isabela’s throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She could handle Hawke being angry, yelling, crying, storming off. That would make sense. But this? This withdrawn nonchalance, this composed acquiescence, felt so wrong. It was, she realized, the way Hawke spoke to her enemies.

“Hawke, please,” Isabela said, and her voice came out tight, strangled. “Can we talk about this? In my room, or yours? Somewhere that’s not the middle of the bar?”

There was a crack then, a glimpse of sadness, regret, and even if it felt like being stabbed, Isabela could take it. It was better than nothing.

Mercifully, Hawke stood. “All right,” she sighed. “I can tell you’re not going to let this go. Let’s talk.” 

As she walked up the stairs, Hawke trailing behind, Isabela was not sure what she could say or do, but dammit, she was going to try. She never backed down from a good fight, and if she could fight someone, fighting _for_ someone, for something, should be a thing she could do.

She closed the door as Hawke entered after her, then lit a candle and the wall sconces along with it, until the room was bathed in a warm glow, though it did little to temper Hawke’s frigidity. She remembered the last conversations she had in this room—Hawke and Varric, both painful.

“Do you want to sit down?” she asked.

“No thank you. I’ll stand,” Hawke replied.

So Isabela also stood, and Maker take her, she just wanted Hawke to touch her, because the distance between them felt so much larger than when they were countries apart, but they held their ground, oceans between them Isabela was not sure she could sail.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath, held it, let it out. “Where do you want me to start?”

“You can start with when you left. The first time,” Hawke said flatly, and the force behind that word “first” stung like a slap, but Isabela would take the blow and was prepared to take a thousand more.

Isabela looked at the floor and spun one of her rings around her finger. “When I killed Sam and took the book, I knew two things. One, that this was the only way I could survive. And two, that I didn’t want to drag you into my mess any more than I already had.” In more ways than one. “I honestly didn’t think the Qunari would turn on the city. But when I turned around and saw the smoke, I had to come back.”

“You really thought the Qunari would just… what, give up? They’d already been there for four years. How else did you think it would turn out?” There was an edge to Hawke’s voice, but it was blunted with weariness. 

“I thought… I thought if I brought it back, they would leave. And maybe they would have, but then you—” She didn’t want to say it.

“I wasn’t going to let them take you.”

Isabela swallowed, pushing down the fear and the shame and the memories, but they would not be denied. “And when he—” _stabbed you, killed you_ , “—hurt you, and you fell, and you didn’t wake up...” _And you bled, and you bled_. “All I could think was… I did this. This is my fault. So I… I ran. Because if you,” she grit her teeth and forced the word out, “if you died, I would not be able to bear it. I couldn’t accept that my mistakes would cause the death of someone I… cared for, again.”

She couldn’t bring herself to look at Hawke, and Hawke remained discouragingly silent, so, unsure what else to do, she continued.

“I went to Rivain. I thought it would be safe. Familiar. I spent a year in Afsaana working on a fishing boat. Then close to two in Llomerryn, not really… doing anything, honestly. I ran into Dice, one of my old friends and shipmates, and he had a job taking him to Kirkwall. So I… came back.” That felt so inadequate an explanation. But what else could she say?

“Why did you come back?”

And that was the real question, wasn’t it? How was she supposed to make Hawke understand when she herself could barely confront the truth of it? The old seer’s words flowed through her mind: _this woman in the echoes, the one tattooed all over your spirit_ … and she knew. The granite cliffs. She always knew.

“When I was in Rivain, you’d think it was supposed to feel like home, right? But it didn’t. I was lost.” A prickling across her eyes, a catch in her throat, but she pressed on. “And I… I tried, I tried so hard to hide from it. I tried drowning myself in drink, I tried throwing myself into work, I tried sleeping with other people, and nothing worked. Everywhere I looked, it was…”

And then it was all coming out, all the desires and denials and dreams of the last six years, and all the tears she had saved up poured out along with them.

“It was you. It has to be you, because nothing else makes sense. And what I feel for you is so intense, so,” she bit back a sob, “so _fucking_ terrifying, but I couldn’t make it go away, and I can’t make it go away, and it’s not going to go away. I can see that now. It’s always been you. I can’t run from it anymore.”

Her hands fell to her sides, and she looked at Hawke, whose face was inscrutable.

“Hawke. Please say something.” 

Hawke’s expression softened, her shoulders slumped forward, and she sighed. 

“Three years, Isabela,” she said quietly. “No letter, nothing to indicate you were even alive. When I woke up after a week of being unconscious, in the worst pain of my life, the first person I looked for was you. When Meredith gave me this ridiculous title of Champion, something I never wanted, you weren’t there. These last three years... you have no idea how badly I needed you here with me.” Emotion started to flow back into her, and when Isabela looked closely, she could see the tears welling in Hawke’s eyes. “But you weren’t here.”

Isabela thought of all those letters she wrote and destroyed. There must have been a hundred. Maybe more. Why couldn’t she send any of them? 

“I should have been,” Isabela said, her voice thick. “I’m sorry. I know my words must not mean much, but if there’s any chance... I mean, if you haven’t… moved on—” and that thought was more painful than she anticipated, “—I swear I will do whatever I can to make it up to you.”

“I want to believe you,” Hawke said, and her gaze dropped to the red ribbon on the table. It was almost imperceptible, but Isabela swore she saw the corners of Hawke’s mouth twitch up. “And... I haven’t moved on, not completely. I tried, believe me, but… it’s one of those things I’m not very good at.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

“Will you come over tomorrow night? If this is going to work…” Hawke trailed off, her fingers brushing across the top of the table, near the strip of fabric. “I need you to prove it.”

It felt fragile, whatever was between them now, like the smallest of embers, but Isabela would hold it in her hands, shelter it from the wind, and nurture it as best she could. Hawke deserved that much.

“I will.”

And when Hawke crossed the room and embraced her, Isabela finally realized where her home was.


	22. Act 3, Part 2: "In the Moonlight"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Susie Suh: "In the Moonlight"  
>  _And there's magic in the air_  
>  _A lotus flower floating out of despair_  
>  _And my winter sun_  
>  _You are my broken one_

Well, the blighted mile-high stairs to Hightown were still there. More boxes ticked on her mental checklist. That was one thing the Rivaini had over the Marchers: no obsession with altitude. Hightown, as she assumed it would, looked practically unchanged in the last three years. Maybe even better than it had before—a backlash against those that would dare spill blood on their polished marble and landscaped gardens. Money was a powerful thing.

All the templars, though, milling about like grim-faced, shiny-armored ants. That was different. Hawke warned her about the curfew Meredith had recently instated over the city, a heavy-handed attempt to quell the unrest. Isabela was confident she could dodge the templars if she had to, but visiting Hawke’s estate after her time away from Kirkwall was nerve-wracking enough. Just to be safe, she made sure the sun hadn’t fully set before approaching Hightown.

Still the same oak front door with the same brass knocker. No banners proclaiming “The Champion of Kirkwall Lives Here!” That was good, at least.

She wrapped her hand around the knocker, lifted it, then gently set it back down, silent.

_“If this is going to work, I need you to prove it.”_

_Prove it._ A phrase guaranteed to light a fire in Isabela’s blood, no matter the speaker. The surest way to get her to do anything. But what was “it?” When “it” was the threat of violence, that was simple enough. But this?

Unease crept cold and heavy through her gut. Things would be different now, no doubt about it. You didn’t give a tearful confession like that and not change things. But those were words, and Hawke deserved more than words. How did one rebuild a burned bridge? It was so much easier to strut around and proclaim “no regrets.” 

But she would rebuild. She would listen. She would try. And hopefully, that could be enough.

Grabbing the knocker again, she hit it against the door in the same jaunty cadence she always used when she bothered to knock at all. She expected to see Bodahn, but Hawke answered instead.

“Hey trouble,” Hawke said, an old nickname Isabela always used to wear like a badge of honor. Hawke smiled, but her expressions and movements were still guarded, still a bit stiff, like a disconnection had formed between her head and her heart somewhere in the last three years.

“Can I come in?” Isabela asked, tapping the toe of her boot against the doorframe. 

Hawke had the door barely ajar, just enough to show her head and right arm. “Oh, of course,” she replied, opening the door fully, and Isabela stepped into the entry hall.

There was still something so unsettling about the empty estate. Something about the sheer size of it amplified the silence, especially while Bodahn and his son were away, as though the house itself could not bear to only be occupied by Hawke and her dog. After years in tiny roadside inns and one-room huts, Isabela felt like the Amell estate would swallow her whole, until she became part of the dusty cellar bricks or the cavernous vaulted ceilings.

She followed Hawke to the sitting room. And there was Brutus, on his haunches in front of the fireplace, eying her warily, his head turned away. He made no move to greet her, and somehow that almost hurt more than the way Hawke first looked at her in the Hanged Man’s bar. He had aged quite thoroughly in the last three years, she noticed, gray fur covering his muzzle and curling around his eyes, and there was a slight gauntness to his frame that wasn’t there before, though he still appeared in fighting shape.

“Baby Brutus, look at you,” Isabela cooed, trying to coax some positive reaction out of him, though she didn’t understand why she cared about what Hawke’s dog thought of her. “You’ve become such a distinguished-looking old man.” He didn’t move. No tail wags, no sound. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?” she asked, and she could swear she heard a huff of disapproval. “I suppose that’s fair. Well, I apologized to your master, so I ought to apologize to you, too, right? I’m sorry, Brutus, for depriving you of slobbery kisses and bum scratches.”

She looked at Hawke, who was observing this one-sided conversation from near the fireplace, an odd little half-smile curving her lips.

“What?” Isabela said, crossing her arms. “I have to say sorry to probably a thousand people for all my stupid bullshit. I’m starting with you and the dog.” She hadn’t seen anyone else in their circle during her short time back in Kirkwall, and for that, she was grateful. It was hard enough trying to sort through things with Hawke.

“He’ll be fine. He just had to listen to me rant about you for three years,” Hawke said, walking over and ruffling Brutus’s ears. His mouth dropped open in a happy smile and he leaned into her side, a request for more pets Hawke spared no time in granting.

“You ranted about me... to Brutus?”

“Well, yes. Sometimes it’s nice to talk about things with someone that doesn’t feel the need to constantly interject their opinion. And I was… I was pretty hurt,” Hawke added quietly, and something about the tone of her voice and the way her brow furrowed made Isabela’s heart clench.

“I’m sorry,” she said for the fourth time in the last day, and it still felt like she would need to say it a hundred more times before the night was through. “What can I do to fix this?”

Hawke glanced up at Isabela, then crossed the sitting room to where she was standing. She took Isabela’s hands within her own, and though her face gave little away, Isabela hoped she spotted some of the ice in Hawke’s eyes melting.

“Just… stay,” Hawke said, rubbing her thumbs over Isabela’s knuckles. “I need to be able to trust that you won’t run off again.”

“I know. That’s always been my first instinct when things go wrong, hasn’t it? And you know how things tend to go wrong when I’m involved. I don’t…” She sighed. “I don’t know how to do this. Whatever ‘this’ is. This hand-holding, stomach-flipping, heart-fluttering sort of business.”

“Oh, I make your heart flutter, do I?” Hawke smirked, and sure enough, there it was again, that feeling in her chest like champagne bubbles. Damn her.

“It’s a terrible affliction. The first time it happened, I was convinced I was dying.” 

And when was that? It wasn’t long after they first met, upon reflection. They had gotten into a brief skirmish with one of Kirkwall’s many gangs while traversing the docks at night. Isabela was flanked by a thug and got a wicked cut across her arm in the process. After Hawke repaid him by removing his head from his shoulders, she immediately started to tend to the wound before the thug’s body had hit the ground, brushing away Isabela’s protests with a smile and a roll of bandages. Isabela assumed the strange yet pleasant tingling feeling was leftover battle nerves, some side-effect of adrenaline.

Hawke was looking at her the same way now, like she was prepared to see Isabela through every future scrape she could get herself into. She reached up to touch Isabela’s arm, where that cut had long since healed, where the red ribbon was now tied.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s… do you remember when we hiked to that lake in Sundermount? And you had that book in your pack? It was tied with this. It ended up in my bag, and then it ended up in Rivain with me. And at some point, I started wearing it.” Isabela wasn’t about to admit _why_ she started wearing it; it was embarrassing enough as is. That bloody letter would follow her to her grave. “I should probably give it back to you.”

“That’s adorably sentimental, Isabela. I’m shocked,” Hawke said, and there was that smile Isabela was dying to see, the one that could light up even this dreary estate. “But you should keep it. It looks good on you.”

They stood like that for a time, one of Hawke’s hands holding Isabela’s, the other on her arm, a space between them Isabela wanted desperately to close, but she wouldn’t push. If Hawke needed that space, if it made her comfortable, she could have it for as long as she needed.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” Hawke asked, breaking the silence.

There was a flare of expectation and anxiety at the prospect inherent in that question, and Isabela could only nod, too afraid any words might snap the tenuous thread between them.

The only change in Hawke’s room was the massive stack of papers on her desk. She caught Isabela eyeing it and scoffed. “When they declare you Champion, they don’t tell you about all the paperwork. I imagine that would put a lot of people off of the position.”

“Andraste’s ass, Hawke. What is all that even for?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. ‘Thank you for saving my child five years ago.’ ‘There are demons in my basement, please kill them.’ ‘Settle this dispute over a wheel of cheese.’ Marriage proposals. Half of those are probably from Meredith, trying to convince me that imprisoning and torturing mages is a great way to keep them from turning to blood magic.” She shook her head. “I hate it. I never meant to get caught up in any of this, but here I am at the center of it all, and my big ugly statue is the first thing anyone sees when they get off the boat here. I wasn’t even conscious yet when they decided to build it,” she muttered.

“That was certainly quite the surprise when I landed yesterday. Your ass is much cuter than that statue’s, by the way. Among other things.”

Hawke chuckled. “I don’t tend to let strangers get a good look at my ass, generally, so I suppose I can’t blame them for missing such a crucial detail. But,” she said, wrapping her arms around Isabela’s waist and pulling her close, removing that interminable space in a heartbeat, “I’d rather not think of my title at the moment, if that’s all right.” And then she kissed her.

Too long. It had been far too long since she felt Hawke’s lips pressed against her own, and Isabela struggled to be patient, to let Hawke set the pace, and oh, it was hard. But she managed, kept it slow and sweet, until Hawke’s hands were gripping her shirt and her tongue was in Isabela’s mouth and they were left just a touch breathless when they finally parted.

“Do you remember the first time we kissed?” Hawke asked, then kissed her again, like maybe they both needed another reminder.

“Of course. After the ball at the de Launcet’s. You in that dress just about killed me.” And Hawke hadn’t worn it since. The real tragedy.

“Well, you in that admiral’s coat did a number on me, too.” A sly smile. “Did you ever end up finding someone else to spend the night with?”

“No. I pouted about it for a while, then took care of things myself while thinking about you.” There was no mistaking the spark in Hawke’s eyes as she grasped the insinuation, so Isabela hammered the point home: “You were all I wanted.”

“You have no idea how close I was to going back to your room. But I was too afraid of falling for you.” Hawke looked delightfully dismayed. “You can see how well that turned out.”

“You _did_ say the best things in life were worth waiting for. And you, my dear Hawke,” Isabela said, tilting her head up until their lips were a breath apart, “were absolutely worth it.”

She pulled Hawke back in for another kiss, then another, and thought maybe she would need a thousand more to make up for lost time.

That lost time made itself known in other, more subtle ways. There were incongruities, the slightest bit of fumbling, some hesitancies as they relearned each other. Isabela found herself torn between wanting to let Hawke take her time and wanting Hawke, period. She needed it. More than anything, she needed _her._ Because if “proving it” involved worshipping Hawke’s body, Isabela was confident she could handle that much.

Hawke slipped Isabela’s rings off, one by one, and set them aside. It had become a sort of ritual since the first time, a quiet moment of intimacy. Isabela always considered toning down the jewelry, if only to get to the main event faster, but there was something oddly soothing about the care Hawke took in removing every ring, bracelet, and necklace.

And now she had one more thing to take off than before. Hawke’s fingertips drifted over the red ribbon, and she began to undo the knot. “You know,” she said, “I could leave it on. The thought of you wearing this and nothing else is an appealing one.”

“Next time,” Isabela promised, and she hoped there would be a next time.

“You let your hair grow out.” Hawke untied Isabela’s braid and separated the strands with her fingers. “I like it. And you know,” she continued, burying her hands in curls, “You were right. I _did_ keep finding these long black hairs absolutely everywh— _oh_ ,” she sighed as Isabela remembered that spot just under her ear.

“I told you.” Isabela was swiftly growing impatient; there needed to be less fabric between them. She pulled off her shirt and watched with great satisfaction as Hawke bit her lip at the sight. “May I?” she asked, the hem of Hawke’s shirt in her fingers, and when Hawke nodded, the shirt came off, and Isabela offered a silent thank you for small miracles, because Hawke’s skin against hers after three years without felt positively divine.

That relief, however, was short-lived. Isabela’s hands remained on Hawke’s shoulders, her waist, her hips, always skirting around where she knew that scar would be, though she couldn’t bring herself to look to know for sure. She couldn’t touch it, couldn’t acknowledge her shame, the physical consequences of her selfishness twisting across Hawke’s flesh. To see it was to remember its cause. To see it was to remember its birth, a red gaping pit soaking through Isabela’s gloves as she screamed for help until her voice gave out.

Hawke noticed her apprehension and slipped her hand over Isabela’s before gently guiding her palm over the scar. “It’s okay,” she murmured against Isabela’s cheek. “I’m okay.”

Steeling herself, Isabela looked down. The scar spanned nearly half of Hawke’s torso, from just inside her left hip bone to the bottom of her ribs, curving towards her waist, its twin, Isabela knew, likely mirrored on Hawke’s back. It was dark pink and jagged, with dozens of smaller shards radiating out where the stitches held her together. Hawke had her share of scars, but none came close to this one, like leather under Isabela’s fingers, rough, embossed against the surrounding skin. She closed her eyes, and the scene played out again and again on the insides of her eyelids. The collective gasp as the Arishok fell, the horrible silence as his blade went in, went through. 

Hawke pressed her palm against the top of Isabela’s hand, just enough pressure to still the trembling. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said, even though, in Isabela’s mind, there was no other explanation.

“I’m sorry.” She would apologize the rest of her life if she had to.

There was a moment then where Hawke seemed to hunch in on herself, averting her gaze, like maybe she too was forced into remembering that moment, the origin of the scar marring her body. But within the space of an inhale and exhale, it was gone, compartmentalized, Hawke’s grimace replaced with an easy smile.

“I’d do it again. Maybe try to get impaled on my right side this time, so I can have symmetrical scars.”

Isabela snickered, despite feeling a little guilty about it. “Only you would joke about something like that,” she said, tapping Hawke on the nose. Gallows humor had always been Hawke’s favorite tactic for avoiding upsetting topics, and, admittedly, it was one of Isabela’s as well, a fact she played into: “Well, I’ll try to avoid putting you in a situation where you could get impaled again. Non-sexual impalement, anyway.” 

“I’m… not even sure the sexual kind sounds appealing, actually.” Hawke appeared simultaneously distressed and curious.

“Oh, I’ve got some things in a trunk back at the Hanged Man that would change your mind.” Things she had _planned_ on putting to good use in Rivain—but that idea, of course, never came to fruition.

Hawke had no words to answer that, only a short laugh, low and wicked, and the promise behind her kiss sent a fresh shock of arousal through Isabela’s body, immediately multiplying when Hawke pulled back and brushed her lips against Isabela’s ear.

“Get on the bed,” Hawke whispered.

Isabela didn’t need to be told twice. She made the short three steps backwards to those silk sheets, Hawke following after her, almost predatory in her movements, tipping Isabela onto her back and mounting her in one smooth motion. Hawke wasted no time in laying a trail of open-mouthed kisses across Isabela’s jaw and down her neck, adding in some teeth along her collarbone, the way that always kept her breathless—another memory reclaimed. 

Hawke moved lower, agonizingly slow, down Isabela’s sternum, before kissing her way to Isabela’s breast, dragging the tip of her tongue across her nipple, right between the metal studs. Then again, tracing around the outside, just enough to bring them to hard peaks, but not enough to satisfy. Isabela’s growl of frustration immediately gave way to a groan of pleasure as Hawke stopped teasing and used the rest of her mouth. Her tongue, her teeth, and the pull of her lips left Isabela helpless, one hand threaded in Hawke’s hair, the other gripping the sheets. She kept Hawke’s leg pinned between her own, hips pitching up, delicious friction, though it did little to mitigate the increasing ache, the need throbbing between her legs.

Replacing her thigh with her hand, Hawke captured Isabela’s moaned curse with a kiss, smiled against her lips, and Isabela was sure Hawke had to feel how badly she wanted it, even with a layer of clothing in the way. Hawke applied pressure with her fingers and Isabela arched into it, and it wasn’t enough, it couldn’t be enough.

Hawke pulled back, and in the hushed glow of the firelight Isabela couldn’t miss the intensity, the hunger in Hawke’s eyes, three years of longing, and thought she might drown in it.

“I want you,” Hawke said, emphasizing her desire with another press of her hand.

There was no question in Isabela’s mind.

“Then take me. I’m yours.”

Hawke needed no further invitation, and Isabela barely managed to remove Hawke’s pants before her own were dragged off and casually tossed somewhere across the room. 

“I feel like I should tease you more.” Hawke shifted onto her side, trailing her hand down past Isabela’s navel. “But I’m just too fucking impatient.” 

If Isabela had a witty comeback ready, it was obliterated when Hawke’s hand slipped between her legs. Far too loud a moan for only one finger, but Isabela found she didn’t care. Hawke deserved to hear how much she was wanted.

Whatever patience Hawke had lost before seemed to have been found, as she carefully teased with her finger, stroking up, circling around, but never directly on, Isabela’s clit, before dipping back inside her, torturously slow. Isabela wanted to grab Hawke by the wrist, demand to be taken, command her own pleasure, but she held back, allowed Hawke to savor her body.

Closing her eyes, Isabela let every sensation wash over her—the reverence of Hawke’s touch, the warmth of her lips against her neck. She could feel Hawke shift position, moving from beside Isabela to in between her spread legs. The half-second of Hawke’s hair brushing against her thigh was barely enough time for coherence to form before Hawke’s tongue was against her clit, dragging across her piercing, and then she wrapped her lips around it and sucked, and every incipient thought in Isabela’s mind was blown away.

Hawke was masterful at her craft, her fingers and mouth pulling Isabela right to the precipice before drawing her back every time she got too close. Isabela threw her head back, rolled her hips, pushed into everything Hawke had to offer, and when her hand groped blindly for something to hold onto, she found Hawke’s other hand and intertwined their fingers. 

As careful as Hawke was trying to be, that mouth of hers was in danger of shoving Isabela over the edge far too soon. “Hawke,” Isabela gasped, trying to avoid giving in when every instinct in her body demanded otherwise. “Get back up here.”

She hauled Hawke up with her free hand just as Hawke added a second finger, and Isabela had enough presence of mind to fire off a string of profanity before Hawke brought their lips together once more, and the taste of herself sent another crest of arousal slamming into Isabela’s body.

Sensing Isabela was close, Hawke slowed her movements, let the tension ease, until Isabela’s grip on her hand softened. “You feel so amazing,” Hawke murmured, smiling against Isabela’s jaw, and something else joined the pure lust screaming through Isabela’s veins, something that made her feel warm, comfortable, safe. She held onto that feeling, let it carry her, and the pressure building inside her shifted from white-hot peaks to a rise more gradual, more powerful.

Hawke’s lips ghosted across Isabela’s, nothing but breath between them, and Isabela was lost in the moment, unable to speak. She lifted her hips to meet every curl of Hawke’s fingers as they reached a synchronicity, until all that existed was Hawke and her and nothing else. Isabela’s hand slid from Hawke’s back to her face, cupping her cheek, and Isabela held Hawke’s gaze within her own, wanting her to witness the moment she came undone. It wouldn’t take much, just a kiss and a third finger.

Isabela surrendered. She let go of her last handhold, giving herself to oblivion. 

Her release ripped an inarticulate cry from her throat to Hawke’s lips, sent shockwaves through her, filled her eyes with a sudden rush of tears. Hawke held her, let Isabela cling to her as she rode it out, kissed her temple where her hair was damp with sweat.

Overwhelmed with emotion and physical pleasure and _Hawke_ , Isabela thought she could fight to keep the tears at bay, but when Hawke pulled Isabela to her with a choked, “I missed you,” it all came out.

“I missed you, too,” Isabela barely managed to force out between sobs. Why did she leave? How could she think to leave the only person who had ever made her feel safe?

They held each other for a long time, until their tears dried and Isabela’s limbs stopped trembling. She maneuvered the sheets and blankets over them, and the nighttime chill of spring was replaced with the warmth of their entangled bodies. 

“Oh, Hawke, you’ve ruined me,” Isabela joked, sniffling. “I’ve never cried so much over another person in my life.”

Hawke laughed and kissed Isabela’s forehead. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I can’t imagine pirates want to know their captain gets weepy after a good orgasm.”

“You’d be surprised. Pirates are an awfully emotional lot. My first mate once told me, ‘The truest things in life are saltwater: the sea, sweat, and tears.’” She smirked. “That _was_ a good orgasm, though. Would you be interested in having one or five for yourself after I blow my nose?” 

“In a while. Right now, I just want to hold you. I still can’t believe you’re back.” 

Hawke worked her arm between Isabela’s side and the bed and embraced her. And as Hawke held her, there was that feeling again, the same one she felt as the spirits possessing the seers flowed through her: that feeling of balance, of peace, of all those little pieces aligning. And Isabela knew. She would stay. 

\------

Isabela awoke. She was not in her bed. There was an arm around her. Her eyes flew open, panic stealing the air from her lungs. In the pitch-black room, caught in a post-sleep stupor, it took her several heart-pounding moments to remember where she was. This was Hawke’s bed, it was Hawke’s arm holding her close, Hawke’s slow, steady breathing on the back of neck.

She managed to settle her nerves, still the hammering in her chest, but a disquiet had stolen into her muscles, leaving her tense. Maybe this was a mistake. Who was she trying to fool? This was what little girls did with their dolls. This doll meets this doll and they fall in love and live happily ever after. Nothing could be further from her truth. She was not a doll and this was no childish fantasy. She was a broken woman trying to hold herself together long enough to form a connection with someone who kept all her own cracked pieces in an iron grip.

But, she knew, Hawke never used that iron grip on her. Her hold on Isabela, on their relationship—whatever it was now—was always gentle, always offering Isabela an escape route if she needed it. Hawke held her like glass.

Carefully, Isabela rolled over so she was facing Hawke. She couldn’t see her, but she could hear each quiet breath. It was hard for her to believe she was worthy of this. To be cared for. To be touched in a way that went deeper than pure carnality. To be…

“Hawke?”

“Mm?” Hawke inhaled sharply, pawing at Isabela’s back like she didn’t quite know what she was touching. “You okay?”

 _Her first concern is my well-being._ Isabela sighed. _I don’t—no_ , she stopped herself. She deserved this. For once in her life, she deserved to be someone’s first concern. She held Hawke’s jaw in her hand, stroked her thumb over her cheek. She could feel Hawke smile, a light brush against her palm.

“I’m okay. Just trying to get used to this.”

“To what?” Hawke asked, sleep still clinging thick to her words. She placed her hand over Isabela’s, weaving their fingers together.

“To being here until morning. Trusting someone else. But that’s not… what do _you_ need? From me?” Maybe not the best time to have this conversation, but she had to know. If doubt remained in Hawke’s heart, she had to ameliorate it.

Hawke leaned forward and kissed her languidly, in a midnight haze. “Stay,” she said, and kissed her again. “Stay.”

She could do that. She could. Pulling Hawke closer to her, tangling their legs together, she kissed her slowly, deliberately, as if her lips could somehow convince Hawke of her conviction in case her words proved inadequate. Hawke seemed to stir from her sleepy reverie, running her hands over Isabela’s ribs, pushing back. Her tongue grazed against Isabela’s bottom lip, and Isabela took that as permission, tilting her head, deepening the kiss, until she had Hawke fully awake, moaning against her tongue.

That spark of desire never seemed to go out when she was around Hawke. Isabela’s hands wandered over her body—across Hawke’s hips, the subtle curve of her waist, her strong shoulders. She traced the scar with her fingertips, its harsh texture such a contrast to the skin surrounding it. It didn’t scare her anymore. It belonged to the beautiful woman in her arms, a woman who was willing to accept all of Isabela’s scars without hesitation. It was only right for Isabela to do the same.

Hawke hooked her leg over Isabela’s hip. “Touch me,” she whispered, breath hot against Isabela’s jaw. “Please.” 

As she slid her hand down Hawke’s stomach, all too eager to comply with the request, Isabela could feel Hawke holding her breath, the way she always did before Isabela touched her. And then that breath came out in a wavering groan as Isabela slipped two fingers deep inside her, and Hawke’s hips rocked forward, her hands clutching at Isabela’s back. 

“Bela,” Hawke breathed, unable to suppress a shudder as Isabela curled her fingers. “I need this. I need you.”

“Oh, sweet thing, _I_ need this.” Isabela pulled her fingers out and circled them over Hawke’s clit, relishing the slickness of her arousal and each and every quiet sound she managed to coax from Hawke’s mouth. It was exhilarating, this power. Kirkwall’s Champion was hers.

Hawke opened herself more, shifted her leg higher over Isabela’s hip, her gasps swiftly turning ragged under Isabela’s touch. Her fingernails dug into Isabela’s shoulders, and she took her bottom lip between her teeth. 

“Fuck me,” she growled. “Hard.” 

Two fingers, then three, and Isabela had Hawke whimpering with every thrust of her hand. And she kept it hard, kept the tempo unrelenting, dragging her fingers along Hawke’s inner walls before plunging them back in, never giving Hawke a chance to catch her breath, to do anything but take it. The absence of light only served to intensify her remaining senses—every word, every breath, amplified, the taste of Hawke’s tongue, the heady scent of sex and sweat. The wet heat enveloping her fingers. The tension in Hawke’s body building to a crescendo. Isabela drank it in, let it annihilate her mind. This was where she belonged.

It wouldn’t take much more, she knew. Hawke’s tells, her patterns, were burned into memory. Isabela lifted her head off the pillow and placed her lips to Hawke’s ear.

“Come for me.”

Hawke did as she was told, gripping Isabela’s wrist, using what modicum of control she had left to direct her own pleasure, pinning Isabela’s hand between their bodies as she bucked against her fingers. Isabela eased her through it, murmuring sweet nothings against Hawke’s forehead, a contrast to the ferocity of their lovemaking—which, perhaps, she could finally admit was what it truly was.

They drifted back down, suspended in that particular sort of post-sex euphoria Isabela doubted existed anywhere else. Her arm ached, her pulse slammed against the inside of her head, and she had never felt more happy, more alive. Isabela waited until the aftershocks diminished to extricate herself, but couldn’t stop a surprised gasp when Hawke then guided Isabela’s fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean. 

“You are filthy,” Isabela declared with no small amount of pride, and kissed her, sharing the taste. “I love it.”

Hawke laughed, breathy and exhausted. “Your fault. I used to be a nice girl, and then you corrupted me.”

“Bullshit. You were never a nice girl.”

“Ah, you're right.” Hawke shifted onto her back and gently pulled Isabela with her, until Isabela’s head was settled on Hawke’s chest. “If this was a dream, it was a damn good one.”

Isabela listened to Hawke’s heartbeat and the quiet flow of air in and out of her lungs. Previously, she was of the opinion that nothing put her to sleep easier than the placid sway of a ship in calm waters. But now, she thought, as drowsiness washed over her like a warm bath, being in Hawke’s arms might just top that. And if a ship stayed out of reach, if the seas dried up, if she never sailed again, maybe she could survive, as long as she had this.

\------

It was morning when Isabela awoke the second time, the sunlight red behind her closed eyelids. Unlike before, consciousness came gradually, comfortably, and she was reluctant to leave sleep’s embrace. Something was in her hair. She slowly came to the realization that it was Hawke’s hand, gently massaging her scalp, threading strands through her fingers. 

Her eyes cracked open. When her vision finally focused, she saw Hawke’s scar before anything else. Then the rest registered. Hawke was sitting up, her back against the headboard, legs drawn up towards her chest, a book balanced on her knees. Hawke’s right hand, the one not occupied with Isabela’s hair, parted the pages.

Isabela watched her silently, watched the miniscule twitches of Hawke’s lips and eyebrows as she read a particularly interesting passage, watched the way her fingertips carefully turned each page from the corners, like she was afraid of making too much noise. Watched every inhale and exhale and how the sheets draped over her legs, pooling in her lap. Time held its breath. Isabela wanted nothing more than to live in this moment as long as she could, capture it in a bottle, protect it. This bliss was a new sensation. Something she supposed she could get used to, but hoped she never would.

Hawke’s eyes flicked from the page to Isabela’s face. “Good morning,” she said, and a crooked smile curved one side of her mouth. “You made it through the night with another person. How does it feel? Oh, and by the way, you make cute little grumbly noises when you sleep. In case you were curious.”

“You’re such an ass,” Isabela muttered, scooting closer to plant her lips against Hawke’s hip. “You really want to know how I feel?”

The book closed and Hawke’s legs lowered until they were flat on the bed. Isabela shifted so the back of her head rested on Hawke’s lap. Hawke looked down at her, and it was subtle, but Isabela could see the concern clouding Hawke’s face as she nodded, preparing for—or perhaps dreading—Isabela’s answer.

It was obvious, wasn’t it? “I feel… wonderful,” Isabela said, and Hawke’s relief was palpable. “I’m so happy I’m not even sure what to do with myself.” It was a little frightening, actually, and difficult to avoid wondering when the other shoe would drop, but she would cling to this feeling, unknown future be damned.

“Oh! Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Definitely. Absolutely.” Hawke looked so giddy Isabela had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. “Do you want some tea?” she asked, apropos of nothing.

Isabela found herself torn between wanting to keep Hawke in bed with her and wanting to alleviate a distinct parchedness borne from a long night of… exertions. After a brief but intense battle, the thirst won out. “Oh, all right,” she groused. “But come back soon. This bed is far too big for one person.”

“Pretty sure I tried to use that line on you once or twice before, and it never worked.” Hawke smirked and leaned down to give Isabela a kiss on the nose before sliding out from under her head. She threw on her robe and padded out the room and down the stairs, and as she watched her leave, Isabela could swear Hawke was _strutting._

She stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes, relishing the silk and the sunlight and those stupid persistent tingly feelings. 

There came a series of soft ticking noises from the door to the bed, then something distressingly cold and wet pushed against her arm. Isabela glanced to her left, and there was a very big, very mopey-looking mabari nuzzling her hand and whining pathetically.

“Have you forgiven me?” she asked, and Brutus’s stump of a tail wiggled. “And now you want in bed?” The wiggling increased until it took over his whole back end. “Does Hawke let you in the bed?” A muffled woof, more a puff of air than sound. “Is there a reason you insist on being in bed with me while I’m naked?” Brutus grunted and shoved his nose harder against her arm, tapping his front paws on the ground in impatience.

Isabela sighed. “Okay, fine. Come here, silly boy.”

Brutus leapt into the bed and stumbled over her, then promptly made several circles before flopping into a loose half-curl, pressed against Isabela’s leg. She shook her head and scratched between his shoulder blades. Sharing a bed with a dog lord _and_ her dog. Oh, how the times had changed.

“Ah, Brutus. I hope you’re not upset about me calling you old. But that makes two of us, you know.” She leaned over so he could get a good look and pointed to a spot on her forehead. “Look at this fucking wrinkle. Right between my eyebrows. I don’t even know where it came from.” Brutus popped his head up and licked her chin. “Honestly, I never thought I’d live this long. I always assumed I’d get myself killed off before thirty.”

He looked at her with those round brown eyes and Isabela thought maybe, somehow, he understood.

“But I’m glad I’m still here,” she said quietly.

Maker’s balls, Hawke was taking her sweet time. Was she harvesting and drying the tea leaves herself? Knowing a return to sleep was now out of reach, Isabela looked around for something to occupy herself with. Her gaze fell on the book Hawke was reading earlier. Leaning over Brutus, who made absolutely no effort to get out of her way, she scooped the book up and read the cover.

 _“You Were the Spaces In Between: The Selected Poems of Nives Cattaneo_. Interesting. I never pegged Hawke as the poetry type. What about you, Brutus?”

Brutus made a noise that was decidedly noncommittal. 

She flipped the book open to a random page. Antivan poetry was excessively flowery on its own, but translated, it was somehow worse, a fact she discovered as she read to her less-than-captive audience:

_“To your lips this shadow gives_  
_An uncertain flicker of a beautiful smile_  
_Life is born in a sea of lights.”_

Isabela groaned. “This is atrocious.” That did not, however, stop her from reading more or trying to remember enough Antivan to back-translate it. A task made more difficult by not knowing if Nives Cattaneo originally wrote the poems in Low or High Antivan. She hoped it was Low, if only because that was easier to recall.

“Are you talking to yourself?” Hawke asked, entering the room with teacups in both hands.

Isabela squeaked in surprise and dropped the book. “No, just the dog,” she said, attempting to regain composure in the face of Hawke’s raised eyebrow. “You’re right, he _is_ a lovely conversation partner.”

Hawke chuckled and passed Isabela’s tea over. It wasn’t _ihe_ this time, rather, a more traditional, mellow Marcher blend. Isabela took a sip. Enough cream and sugar to practically wipe out any semblance of actual tea flavor. Hawke remembered how she liked her tea. Of course she did.

“I figured you’d be sick of _ihe_ after three years of it, so I made something else.” Hawke settled back into bed with her own cup. “Oh, and there’s food downstairs, too. I know you’re not much for breakfast, but it’s there if you want it.”

“I’ve no quarrel with breakfast; I’m just not usually awake before it turns into lunch.” She gave Brutus a nudge with her leg, but he refused to move from his spot between them. “And you know, it’s funny, but I didn’t end up drinking that much _ihe_ in Rivain. I avoided it right up until I left, actually. It reminded me too much of you.”

Hawke glanced at her. “Really? Well, I guess I couldn’t go to the docks for the same reason. Even when the seneschal was bothering me every day to pick a place for that bloody statue. But I’d think about all the times we went to watch the boats, and…” Hawke looked back into her tea with a quiet smile. “I’m glad you’re here now.”

“Me too.”

Isabela’s hand, absently rubbing patterns across Brutus’s withers, was joined by Hawke’s, and she remembered the first time the three of them went boat-watching. When Hawke’s hand accidentally touching hers sent panic coursing through her veins. Denial, she thought, was an awfully powerful drug.

“I thought I saw you reading my book when I walked in,” Hawke said, the playful edge to her words suggesting there was no question she had seen Isabela nose-deep in Antivan poetry.

“Um… I got bored, and it was right there, so…”

“It’s pretty terrible stuff, but there’s some things in there I like. I actually bought it after reading the first page.”

Isabela picked the book back up and opened the cover to the first poem. Her eyes skimmed over it and something caught in her throat. 

Hawke was able to recite it from memory:

_“You_  
_The sea_  
_Serene and brutal_  
_And I_  
_The helpless shore_  
_Weathering your tides”_

No, Isabela thought. Not the shore. Never the shore. Someday she would have to tell Hawke about the Llomerryn seers. But for now, she closed the book and placed it back on the bed, choosing to divert around seas and shores and cliffs.

“Look at you, waxing romantic about the ocean like a proper sailor. I’ll have to teach you more Rivaini. Our poems put the Antivans to shame.”

Hawke’s eyes lit up. “How so?”

“Well, they take days to tell, for one. Quite the event. And as far as I know, no one has ever written them down. But somehow everyone knows them from their mother’s mother’s mother. Or someone else’s mother’s mother’s mother, in my case.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Oh… let’s see.” She thought of the last event she had attended, a week-long festival involving a dramatic, frequently intoxicated retelling of a tale everyone in the country likely knew, different participants finishing each other’s sentences. Llomerryn didn’t have as strong a history of storytelling as other parts of Rivain, likely owing to its relatively recent habitation and the influence of other cultures. One could find books easier on the island than anywhere else in Rivain, but that came at a price. 

“Probably _Bidaia._ It’s about this woman… well, she’s either a woman or a man depending on where in Rivain you are, but I’ve usually heard the woman version. Anyway, this woman, Marjanah, goes on this grand journey to explore beyond the islands past the Donarks, which is apparently where we came from a million years ago. 

“So, ships back then were quite a bit different than they are now. Long, skinny things. Only one square sail right in the middle of the deck. You had to use oars to get anywhere. Not easy. So she’s all the way out in what’s likely the Boeric Ocean, lots of ridiculous things happen, they get attacked by a sea dragon, she loses an arm… have you ever tried rowing with one arm? I don’t recommend it. Some versions say she finds what’s now called Rivain, some say she never got that far. Regardless, she decides to go back, most of her crew are dead, it’s all very tragic.

“Now, Marjanah’s been gone from home for years. She’s consorted with demons, lassoed a griffon, visited an underwater mermaid kingdom… the list gets longer and more absurd every time I hear it. She’s left her husband behind while she was on this journey, and she’s convinced he’ll have moved on by the time she comes back. And even if he hasn’t, she’s not exactly looking grand at this point. She’s seen some shit. But she gets to shore, finally, and there he is, waiting for her. And then it goes… hang on, let me try and remember the words…

_“Na besoa adan-ga en ekwun—_  
_‘Zu ni hutam izon eibade-ezin.’_  
_Na ekwun—_  
_‘Ni obi: aja-bada ize ana zu kitea ibe betimaan eduko.’_

Caught up in the drama of _Bidaia_ , Isabela’s words tumbled from her mouth in a rush as she tried to translate her favorite part: “Basically, she’s worried she’s too broken now for him to love. And he says something like, even if you were grains of sand, I would find all your pieces and hold them forever.” She could feel her face growing warm as she realized what it must sound like in a language they both knew. “It, uh… sounds better in Rivaini,” she muttered, occupying her foolish mouth with a gulp of tea before she said anything else equally idiotic. Maker take her.

Hawke gently squeezed her hand, and that said enough. 

_“Obi,”_ Hawke said, mimicking Isabela’s pronunciation as closely as she could. “I’ve heard that word before, I think?”

“Probably. It means a lot of things. The heart—both the physical thing beating in your chest and the... more mushy interpretation—or home, or trust. You can use it for a particular variety of love, too. That’s one thing I’ve never understood about the King’s Tongue. You love your brother, your spouse, a good beer, and it’s all the same word. Rivaini has different words for all of that.” Though, previously, she thought another word entirely could handle nearly all of those varieties: _ohiasakh_ : a word that didn’t have an adequate equivalent in the King’s Tongue, but loosely meant something monstrous and overwhelming.

“So what is _obi,_ in that case?”

“That’s… I guess the deepest sort of love? Marjanah had been married to Yunan for oh, I think twenty years before she left on her journey. So that probably counts as _obi_ at that point. _Akhina_ is what comes before that. That’s the crazy, passionate kind of romance Antivans like to write poetry about. _Obi_ is what you get later, when you’ve been through real shit together. Cleaned up each other’s vomit. You know, things like that. Allegedly.” Isabela ran her fingertip along the rim of her teacup. “I’m not exactly an expert.”

“Okay. So _‘ni obi’_ would be… my… heart or... my love?” Hawke ventured, and hearing those two words—in either language—from Hawke’s mouth left Isabela feeling distinctly light-headed. “All right, that painfully uncomfortable look on your face says it is.” The dangerous twinkle in Hawke’s eyes and her wicked smirk served as potent fuel for Isabela’s anxiety. 

“Remember when Varric bet you couldn’t finish that bottle of whiskey? I think I might have cleaned up your vomit that night. I’m kidding!” Hawke giggled as Isabela buried her face in her hand. “Oh, you looked like you were about to piss yourself.” 

“I think.... I’m still a bit skittish around… certain words. And concepts,” Isabela admitted. She knew now she could stay the night, and perhaps, for her, that was a big step. But this discussion was skirting dangerously close to her panic switch, and the urge to flee began to crawl inexorably up the back of her neck.

Hawke stopped laughing, and concern knit her brow. “Oh, shit. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not responsible for my hang-ups, Hawke,” Isabela said pointedly. She reached over and grasped Hawke’s hand again, just in case Hawke was preparing to beat herself up for something that wasn’t remotely her fault. “These are my demons to fight.”

Setting her teacup down on the side table, Hawke turned back to face Isabela. “You shouldn’t have to fight them alone,” she said.

Isabela was not a woman adverse to taking risks. She had bet everything she had on a roll of the dice, literally and figuratively, more times than she could count. But this—whatever _this_ was—was without a doubt the greatest risk she could ever imagine taking. This falling. Leaping off the gangplank backwards, trusting she would not fall prey to circling sharks and vicious waves, trusting Hawke to catch her. A lifetime of relying only on herself, and she was meant to cast it all away, let someone else take the wheel, sail them both into uncharted waters.

She set her own cup down, carefully maneuvered around Brutus, and placed her hands on either side of Hawke’s face. She kissed her as tenderly as she could manage, gave Hawke her trust, her heart, all those broken pieces, all those grains of sand. “If that’s the case,” she said, pressing her forehead against Hawke’s, watching the worry fade from her blue eyes, “there’s no one I’d rather fight them with.”


	23. Act 3, Part 3: "Figure It Out"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anna Tivel: "Figure It Out"  
>  _And you got a way of believing_  
>  _The rest will work out_  
>  _I'm sorry I said what I said, I don't mean it_  
>  _The darkness, it scares me to death_  
>  _But I'll figure it out_  
>  _I'll figure it out_

One week after arriving back in Kirkwall, Isabela knocked on Varric’s door. She wasn’t avoiding him. Not really. She had just been spending more time at Hawke’s estate than at the Hanged Man, so of course she wouldn’t have run into him. And Varric probably wasn’t around, anyway. He was a busy fellow. That’s what she told herself.

But it was inevitable. Isabela’s Season of Apologies started with Hawke, and, at Hawke’s urging, it needed to keep going. And fuck her sideways, it was a long list. And this would undoubtedly be one of the hardest.

She hoped he wouldn’t be there, so she could throw up her hands, say, “Well, I tried,” and go hide in her own room or back at Hawke’s, putting this off for another day.

Of course, she couldn’t be so lucky. The door opened, and there was Varric, looking up at her with an expression that said absolutely nothing.

“Isabela,” he said, and the use of her name instead of “Rivaini” spoke volumes. “Nice of you to come back.” His tone wasn’t acerbic, nor was it warm. It was calm, it was matter-of-fact, and it hurt.

Isabela forced herself to look at him, to stay planted in front of his door. She had to see this through, no matter the outcome.

“I guess we do crazy things for the ones we love, don’t we?” she offered, hoping the use of his own words would provoke some kind of response. Varric remained impassive. She tried another line: “Should we go set the targets up outside?”

That earned her a twitch of one side of his mouth. She’d take it. 

“Nah, I’ll pass on the target shooting. Just come in. Have a seat.” Varric stepped aside, and Isabela walked in.

She took a seat at his manuscript-covered table near the hearth. He stood. The silence was suffocating. ”It’s been… a while,” she said, empty words to fill an empty room.

“Yeah, three years of not having to listen to your sexual escapades at every hour of the day. Or having you stumble in after a night of drinking, thinking my room was yours. Or scrubbing bloodstains off the floor from whatever poor sod got on your bad side that day. I got a lot of writing done.” He sank down onto the chair next to her and waved his hand at the piles of parchment littering the table.

Isabela squeezed her hands between her knees, unsure how to respond.

“But you know what else? It was also three years of not hearing your wild stories. Or knowing I had your back in a scuffle. Or sharing a drink and a dirty joke.” He picked up a sheaf of parchment and dropped it with a derisive scoff. “And I’m not sure any of this shit I wrote is any good, anyway.”

“Look, what I said to you before I left—”

He waved a hand at her and shook his head. “I didn’t take it personally. It was obvious you were scared shitless. We all were. I know I pushed your buttons trying to get you to stay, and I’m sure that didn’t help matters.”

“I _was_ scared. But I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that.” She waited until he was looking at her again. “I’m sorry, Varric.” There. One more down. Wasn’t it supposed to feel relieving?

“Ah, Rivaini,” he said, and there, finally, was that relief she was hoping for. “It’s a good thing you’re so charming. And lucky for you, I’m no good at holding grudges. I knew you’d be back. Once you’ve found people just as screwed up as you are, it’s hard to let them go.”

He was right. Hawke’s merry band of headcases. But those were the kinds of people she always liked best, the ones she meshed with on a ship. In general, no one turned to piracy without a few scuff marks on their souls, and, for whatever reason, no one seemed to fall into Hawke’s orbit without some stains of their own. They were her crew now.

“I can’t believe you paid for my room while I was gone,” she mumbled, still shamed by his generosity.

“Yeah, well, you sure took your time getting back here, didn’t you? I was about ready to tell Hawke to start paying for it herself.” Varric stared pointedly at her, accusing. “You _have_ gone to see her, right?”

“I did. I think… I hope… things are going to be okay. Between us, I mean.”

Working on re-establishing and strengthening her relationship with Hawke had occupied most of her week. There was a lot to catch up on, so many things the last three years had snatched away. The only reason she had even left Hawke’s side was because she needed a change of clothes—she could only lay around naked for so long. And, at Hawke’s insistence, she had to leave to apologize to Varric.

“Maybe it was good for you to be gone so long, honestly. Gave her time to forgive you. It wasn’t...” He grimaced. “Dammit, I don’t want to make you feel any worse about it, but… it wasn’t good. When she woke up and you were gone.”

“What happened? After I left the Keep?” She watched them carry Hawke out, watched the ogling crowds of Kirkwall’s nobility surround them like blowflies on a corpse. She could have killed them all.

“Well… we managed to get Hawke to her house. It might’ve been better to have her at Anders’s clinic, but there was no way we were going to carry her all the way to Darktown. Not with that hole in her. It was… it was pretty bad. She had lost a lot of blood. Merrill was able to help with some of that. She did—” he gestured about, trying to grab elusive words from midair, “it was some kind of blood magic, I’m not sure what, but it kept Hawke from losing any more than she already had. And Anders… he damn near killed himself trying to save her. He might have, too, but we were able to find Bethany and pull her away from the Wardens long enough for her to take over for him, at least for a day or two.”

Isabela’s heart fell. “Bethany was in Kirkwall?” Hawke hadn’t mentioned it at all.

“Yeah. You must’ve just missed her on your way out. Her and a few of the other Wardens got caught up in the Qunari fight. Thankfully, they were still in the area a few days later.”

Bethany. Knowing she missed her one chance to see her before Warden business whisked her away was another stab in Isabela’s gut. She should have been there.

Varric continued, the painful recollection weighing heavy on his posture. “Anyway, the rest of us just took shifts… making sure she was warm, had water, wasn’t catching a fever, that sort of thing. That’s why I ran into you here. I needed to get more blankets that weren’t covered in blood. I won’t lie to you. There were some close calls.” He swallowed, a rare stammer disturbing his cadence. “We… we didn’t know if she was gonna pull through.”

Her jaw clenched; unmoving, even as her hands shook. “I am never going to forgive myself for leaving.”

“No point in stewing in self-loathing about it,” Varric said with a sigh, settling his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together in front of his mouth. “If Hawke’s forgiven you, that’s what counts. I’m sure the rest of us will come around.”

“That’s… what I was hoping to have happen. Tonight. I wanted everyone to get together at the bar like we used to.” It occurred to her that she didn’t know if all their friends were even still in Kirkwall, but she had to try. “And I brought things for everyone from Rivain. It would give me a chance to make amends.” 

Varric settled back in his chair, a smile finally gracing his face. “So you _were_ in Rivain. I was wondering. We might be able to wrangle something like that. Though if they know _you’re_ the reason for the little get-together, I’m not sure everyone would be in the mood to see you. Like, say…” he rubbed his jaw, raised his eyebrows, “Aveline.”

“Ooh. Right.” Perhaps she should prepare a will, just in case.

“ _But,_ if Hawke and I can make it look like one of our regular shindigs, and you just _happened_ to show up…” Varric let the idea hang in the air.

“It could work. I feel like if I try to go to everyone individually, I’m going to have a lot of doors slammed in my face.”

“Not as many as you might think. But I’ll give your plan a shot.” He inclined his head. “You better have some damn good presents, Rivaini.”

“Oh, they are. You’ll see.”

\------

“Quit pacing. You’re making me anxious.”

When Isabela—about to wear a trench into the bar’s floorboards with her boots—did not choose to heed Hawke’s words, Hawke pushed herself up from her spot against the wall and wrapped her arms around Isabela’s waist, effectively halting her frantic strides.

Isabela sighed and eased into Hawke’s embrace, let the arms around her and the lips on her forehead melt a little of her tension away. She shouldn’t be so nervous. These people were her friends at one point. Maybe she wasn’t equally close with all of them, but they had all shared joys and sorrows with her. Isabela longed for the days when she could burn bridges without a care.

Hawke and Varric had apparently made the necessary arrangements. Aveline, Merrill, Fenris, and Anders had all been cajoled, bribed, or flat-out begged to come to the Hanged Man for a round of beers and Wicked Grace. And Isabela would just so happen to be perched on her usual stool in the corner, the only indication of her three-year absence coming from the pile of presents on the bar in front of her. Foolproof.

“Sorry,” Isabela said. “I’m just nervous.”

“You shouldn’t be. If anyone has a right to be angry with you, it’s me. And I’m not. So everyone else can deal with it.” Hawke put her fingertips under Isabela’s chin and tilted her head up for a kiss. If the other patrons were looking, Isabela didn’t care. Let them look. 

Deep breath in, hold, and out. Right. Isabela walked to her stool in the corner, and as she began to sit, the door opened, and there was Aveline, dressed in something other than her armor for a change, obnoxiously punctual as always. Isabela ducked, but Aveline immediately spotted her.

Isabela had been a breath away from death more times than most. So when Aveline stomped over to her like a charging bull, it was not an especially unfamiliar feeling.

“ _You,_ ” Aveline snarled, and she was so close Isabela could see every blood vessel in her eyeballs and the vein threatening to pop out of her forehead. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throttle you right here in this bloody bar.”

“Aveline, it’s fine,” came Hawke’s voice from the table. The guard captain, however, was having none of it.

“Stay out of this, Hawke.” Aveline’s voice switched from hot to frigid, an icy whisper, and though she had yet to make physical contact with Isabela, her hands at her sides were clenched into fists. “When I told you what would happen if you hurt her, I never _imagined_ you would do what you did. You selfish, backstabbing piece of shit.”

Isabela stared her down, unflinching. Aveline, after all, was not wrong in her assessment of Isabela’s character. With her back to the wall and Aveline looming over her, Isabela knew she was in an extremely disadvantageous position if Aveline wanted to fight. She remained silent. She could take it.

“She was dying, and you _abandoned_ her. You abandoned all of us. You brought this mess to _my_ city, and then you ran away so you wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences. And now you want to just show up here after three years and pretend none of it happened? Just drink and play cards like always? You’ve got a _lot_ of fucking nerve, Isabela.”

Suddenly, Aveline’s eyes turned glassy, and there was the slightest tremble in her bottom lip.

“You missed my wedding.”

Aveline crushed Isabela into a hug; perhaps this was just a creative way to kill her, Isabela mused, like how some snakes would coil around their prey in a deadly embrace. Isabela stared over Aveline’s shoulder at Hawke, who looked back at her helplessly and shrugged; Aveline continued to mutter about what a horrible person Isabela was while squeezing the life out of her.

Taking a step back, Aveline angrily wiped the tears from her eyes, giving Isabela the chance to refill her lungs. 

“Aveline—” she started, but Aveline held her hand up.

“No. I don’t want to hear whatever your apologies are. Talk is cheap. Prove your worth by staying and taking care of Hawke. Maker knows she has enough on her plate these days.”

And Aveline marched to the other side of the bar to order her drink. Isabela counted herself fortunate to have dodged her own demise yet again, before she remembered Aveline’s gift, and pondered if she did, in fact, have a deathwish. She watched Aveline walk over to the table and say something to Hawke—Isabela couldn’t catch what it was, but Hawke laughed and nodded, then blew a kiss in Isabela’s direction while Aveline glowered. It would take a lot of work before she was out of the woods with that one, Isabela knew.

Anders came next, and Isabela didn’t bother waiting for him to discover her. She had half a second to see the realization bloom on his face before she threw her arms around him, and if Aveline hugged her hard before, Isabela hugged Anders harder.

“Isabela? What—”

“Thank you,” she said, her head on his shoulder, and it was such an inadequate expression for the amount of gratitude she had, but she hoped he could hear her sincerity.

Anders patted her awkwardly on the back, confused. “For what?”

“For saving her life.” She didn’t need to elaborate who.

She released her hold on him to look him in the eyes. Anders had aged far more than he should have in only three years. There were lines around his eyes and mouth where there weren’t any before, and the week’s worth of unkempt bristles on his face did little to hide the pits under his cheekbones. The bags beneath his eyes seemed the result of more than just a simple lack of sleep. She would have to ask Hawke about it later; she doubted Anders would give her a straight answer, himself.

“It wasn’t just me. Everyone helped,” he said.

But not her.

“Still,” she insisted. “I know it was your magic and your hands that put her back together. So, thank you. And Justice, too, if he had any part in it.”

“What _doesn’t_ he have a part in,” Anders grumbled. He smiled, but it did little to temper the weariness hanging on his features.

“Now go sit,” she said, gently pushing him towards the table. “I have to conserve the remains of my sappiness for when Merrill gets here.”

But the elf who walked into the bar a few minutes later was not Merrill.

As Fenris stalked over to where Hawke, Aveline, and Anders were sitting, he caught sight of Isabela and stopped. If he was happy to see her, or angry to see her, or _anything_ to see her, she couldn’t tell.

“Well? If you’re going to hug me or hit me, best get it out of the way now,” she said, running out of patience, attempting to draw out some sort of reaction.

A fraction of an eyebrow raise. “I’m not going to hit you. And I don’t hug.”

“So, then… you’re not mad?” she asked warily. Though, to be honest, she wasn’t sure why she thought Fenris would be angry with her. He seemed absolutely indifferent to her existence most of the time.

“No. I knew you’d be back at some point.”

“You did? Why?”

“Because you’re a good person.” He gave her that quiet, humorless, uniquely Fenris smile. “Nice earrings,” he said, and then he went to sit near—but not too near—the others around the table.

She reached up and touched the golden skulls dangling from her ears. That wasn’t a purposeful choice, really; she just couldn’t find her usual pair.

Eventually, Varric trundled down the stairs, fashionably late. He did a quick headcount and frowned.

“Where’s Daisy?”

There was an exchange of glances and shrugs.

He shook his head, taking a seat next to Hawke. “The only way I could get her away from that mirror was telling her she had the only deck of cards left out of all of us and that we couldn’t play without her.”

“You _lied_ to Merrill?” Aveline asked, incredulous.

“It wasn’t really a lie. Just a bit of truth-stretching. Truth gymnastics, if you will. Gotta keep it limber.”

The door opened and a stream of apologies entered, followed by Merrill, clutching a deck of cards.

“Oh, I am _so_ sorry, I just got so distracted, and I thought I had enough time to finish one last thing, but then I looked outside and it was getting dark and I feel so foolish and—” Merrill found Isabela, who at that point had migrated onto Hawke’s lap, and the cards fluttered to the ground.

Hawke hefted Isabela to her feet just in time for Merrill to barrell into her at full-tilt. There were arms around her shoulders and lips pressed to her cheek, and Isabela was convinced the world was a brighter place for having Merrill in it.

“Is it really you, or am I hallucinating?” Merrill said, bubbling over with excitement. “I haven’t been sleeping that well lately, so you never know.”

“Yes, Kitten.” Isabela held her arms out, posing like that stolen statuette of Andraste she never ended up telling Aveline about. “It is I, Isabela, in the flesh.”

“Oh, good!” Merrill hugged her again. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Isabela said, and she did. She really did. “Find a seat, if you please. I have a big speech to make.”

Hawke and Varric had pushed two of the tables near the bar together. Hawke sat in the middle, a look of dastardly glee on her face. To her right was Aveline, cross-armed and scowling. To Hawke’s left was Varric, eyeing the pile of boxes on the bar with eager suspicion. Next to him was Merrill, nearly vibrating with joy, and next to her was Anders, propped up against the table, certainly not anywhere close to vibrating. And in the back was Fenris, and if Isabela didn’t know any better, she could swear he looked almost curious.

Isabela stood in front of them, rocking back and forth on her heels, sliding her rings on and off. She didn’t plan this out. What was she supposed to say? _I was terrible, I’m sorry, let’s get drunk?_ Or maybe, _See, Hawke likes me again, so the rest of you lot have no excuse_. She caught Hawke’s eye, and she must have looked terribly frightened, because Hawke looked at her with that lovely, reassuring smile she tended not to make in public, and Isabela thought maybe she could do this and not completely cock it up.

“Well,” she announced, then cleared her throat, suddenly painfully aware of the six pairs of eyes on her, plus those of any other eavesdropping patrons. “Thank you, everyone, for being here tonight in this... beautiful establishment.” Balls, she sounded like she was officiating a funeral. “I, um…” When did that stain get there on the floor? “I wanted to... “ Now Norah was watching her. Great. “To tell you all…” She sighed. 

“Ah, fuck it. Look, I messed up. Badly. I’ve made a lot of stupid mistakes in my life, but lying about the Tome for so long, and then taking it and running, and then…” This sounded so much worse when she listed it out. “Running off again, when Hawke… no, not just her—when everyone needed me to stay, that tops them all. I spent three years in Rivain, but I missed all of you. I missed Kirkwall. I missed this shitty bar. This is… this is my home. And I just wanted to get everyone here so I could apologize to all of you in person. You’re all… well, forgive me for being maudlin, but you’re all like the family I never had.” Even Aveline’s expression softened after hearing that. “So. I’m sorry. I know that must not mean much, but I needed to get it out there, at least.” She looked back at the floor, a much safer option than looking anyone in the eye.

“And what’s in the boxes?” Hawke helpfully stage-whispered, breaking the silence.

“Oh! Yes, these.” Isabela patted the boxes, all tied with ribbons, looking like a holiday morning. She was glad she had ordered one of Dice’s swabbies to haul them all to the Hanged Man for her. “I picked up a few things for everyone while I was in Rivain. I thought they were cute, or funny, or maybe even useful. So I hope you like them, but if you don’t…” She shrugged. “I guess you can’t say I didn’t try, right?”

Someone snorted. Probably Varric. Asshole. She ignored it and passed the gifts out, then tried to figure out where to sit. There was space for a whole two people at the end of the bench next to Aveline, but the guard captain insisted on being right next to Hawke. Well, that would just not do. Aveline wasn’t the one sharing Hawke’s bed.

"Scoot over, Aveline. This spot is for the Champion's paramour." Isabela waved her hands in a shooing motion.

"I will never understand. Hawke could choose anyone in this city, but…" Aveline reluctantly shifted to the end of the bench.

“I mean, it’s not like it makes sense to me, either,” Isabela said, leaning into Hawke and putting an arm around her waist.

“I couldn't help it. She’s awfully persistent,” offered Hawke.

Aveline grunted. “Hmph. Like a rash, maybe. You could’ve just stopped at ‘she’s awful.’”

Isabela patted the box on the table in front of Aveline. “Shut up and open your present, you brick-headed ogre.”

Everyone angled a little bit closer as Aveline carefully untied the ribbon and opened the box, like she expected a deepstalker to pop out of it and spit acid in her face. Isabela planted her elbow on the table and tilted her head so she could get a real look at Aveline’s reaction. If this was how she was going to die, Isabela thought, she would at least like to have a good laugh before Aveline gutted her.

“Is this a… sword belt?” Aveline asked, pulling out an intricately stitched together leather harness. 

“You could call it that, I suppose," Isabela replied, stifling a giggle, as Varric gave a surprised bark of laughter he quickly attempted to disguise with a bout of coughing. 

“Oh, there’s more here.” Aveline reached her hand back into the box, then paused. Her eyes flickered towards Isabela, then at the box, and, cautiously, Aveline leaned her head over the box’s rim to see what her hand had touched. She took one long, measured inhale, screwed her face up tight, and exhaled, a slow hiss out her nostrils. The blush lighting her up from her throat to her hairline was the most glorious shade of red Isabela had ever seen a human body create.

“Well, go on, Aveline,” Anders said, and though Isabela could not take her eyes away from Aveline’s abasement, she could hear the mirth in his voice. “Show what you’ve got to the rest of the class.”

From the box, Aveline withdrew a slim porcelain phallus, held between her thumb and forefinger, like she was picking up a sweaty sock. A chorus of “ooh”s went up around the table. Aveline looked at Isabela the way one looks at a dog who has just shat on the rug.

“I... _hate_ you. So much.”

“Hate me? Aveline, that is high quality merchandise you hold in your hands. That’s Antivan leather—” Hawke sniggered next to her, “—and the finest of Rivaini porcelain. I just thought you and Donnic might want to spice things up in the bedroom. You know, give the ol’ arse a nice poke.” Anders collapsed into a fit of giggles, his head on the table. “But if you don’t think you’ll do anything with it, I can take it back and make sure it’s put to good use.” 

Hawke choked on her beer.

Isabela carried on, undeterred by Hawke’s spluttering or Aveline’s murderous expression. “Though it’s a bit smaller than I’d usually prefer. To give or receive.” She caught herself before her mind drifted too far away into lurid details. “Oh, but there’s another box in there, Aveline!”

Aveline looked as though she would rather cut off both her hands than reach back in for anything else.

“You’ll like this one, I promise,” said Isabela. “It’s boring and practical, just like you.”

With a resigned sigh, Aveline placed the phallus gently back in its box (to Isabela’s slight disappointment, if she was being honest with herself, because it _was_ a quality piece) and opened the second gift.

“These are… vambraces? Not anything dirty?”

“Well, you _could_ probably come up with something dirty, if you had the imagination for it. Which you don’t. But yes, they are just vambraces. For those meaty forearms of yours.”

Aveline cradled the vambraces in her hands like newborn kittens. They were Rivaini-style: steel, engraved with swirls and waves meant to represent clouds and the ocean, inlaid with dark blue enamel. Not even close to the standard issue of the guard, but Guard-Captain Aveline ought to be able to wear whatever she wanted, as far as Isabela was concerned. After all, a ship captain could be—and often was—as eccentric with their personal dress as they desired.

“I _did_ need new ones…” Aveline mumbled. “They’re lovely. Thank you,” she added, so quiet Isabela almost missed it. “But that’s really enough excitement for me for one day. Can someone else be humiliated now?”

“We could all just go in a circle,” Varric suggested. “Fenris? Are you ready for whatever could possibly be in that box?”

“I can’t imagine it would be as thrilling as what we’ve just seen,” Fenris said, but he untied the ribbon just the same. “A book?” He picked it up and, to Isabela’s delight, read the cover. “ _Rebellion: A User’s Manual_. What is this?”

Aveline rolled her eyes. “Oh, you can get me something vulgar, but Fenris gets a book?”

“Not just any book,” Isabela said. “That particular book is banned in nearly every country in Thedas. But Llomerryn doesn’t believe in the suppression of art. Or… anything, really. So I was able to find a copy.”

Fenris opened to a random page. “‘How to Make Bombs,’” he read, nodding approvingly. He flipped to the next chapter. “‘How to Overthrow an Oppressive Government.’ Dare I ask who wrote this?”

“No one knows! That’s the best part!” She’d read it, of course, on the the Gilded Skull. Most of it was ridiculous. Isabela loved a good rambling, slightly incoherent philosophical tangent as much as the next girl, but much of _Rebellion_ read like the journals of an angry teenager. Still, some of it was truly dangerous. Mixing lyrium sand with ghoul’s beard and dragonthorn extract was more likely to blow one’s hands off than anything else. The section about trap-making, though, was surprisingly accurate. And there was a chapter in there supposedly written by former slaves from Tevinter that was _particularly_ engrossing.

“I see. I suppose then, when Hawke becomes the viscount, I will now be able to overturn her tyrannical reign of terror,” Fenris deadpanned. “Thank you, Isabela.”

“Oh, if you think I would ever want to be Viscount, you don’t know me as well as I thought,” Hawke replied, shaking her head and taking a drink of her ale, and Isabela was distinctly glad to hear Hawke’s opposition to that idea. Her being Champion was bad enough.

All eyes turned to Anders, who was next in line. “I might have to borrow that book from you, Fenris, when you’re done with it,” he said, and Isabela thought that was probably the last thing Anders needed. He looked at the enormous box at his feet with amusement. It didn’t fit on the table, and he had to stand up to open it.

Anders peered into the box, then stuck his whole upper half in it. “Is it empty?” came an echo from inside the box.

“Nooo,” Isabela called out, voice sing-song. “There’s definitely something in there.”

“Is this supposed to be a metaphor for asceticism?”

“Ugh. Really, Anders. I’m not _that_ much of a bitch. Keep looking.”

He rustled through the packing paper and cotton fluff. “Are you sure? I don’t see—oh, here it is!” Anders emerged from the box with another box, so small it easily fit into the palm of his hand. “Why in the world did you do that?”

Isabela shrugged. “I didn’t want you to feel bad having such a tiny box.”

“Right.” He sat back down on the bench and delicately removed the thin ribbon, barely the width of a twig. Taking off the lid, he stared down at the contents, an odd little smile turning up a corner of his mouth. “It’s an earring. I used to have one just like this, and then I lost it.”

“Well, you _might_ have lost it at the Pearl in Denerim, and I _might_ have found it and sold it,” Isabela admitted with a sheepish grin. “So consider this a replacement.”

Anders rolled the small gold hoop around in his fingertips, investigating it from all angles. “It’s just an earring, right? No enchantments? It’s not going to turn me into a toad?”

“ _That_ would be an improvement. No, it’s just a bloody earring, so put it in your damn ear.”

“You never know with Rivain,” he said, fumbling with the earring and his right earlobe. “You’re lucky the hole hasn’t closed up.”

“I could say the same thing, after three years,” Hawke muttered under her breath, shooting a sly look at Isabela and earning herself a punch on the arm.

Varric patted Merrill on the shoulder. “All right, Daisy,” he said. “Your turn.”

“Is it something dirty? Ooh, I hope it’s something dirty,” Merrill tittered.

“Sadly, it’s not something dirty this time. But I hope you like it just the same.” Isabela had thought of Merrill the moment she saw it, purchasing it from the Llomerryn Dalish long before she had ever thought of returning to Kirkwall.

Merrill’s smile could have lit up a crypt as she pulled the necklace out of its box. Its golden cord was a simple woven thread made to look like a miniature rope, and its pendant was a fish hook-shaped bit of scrimshaw with delicate markings that reminded Isabela of vallaslin. It was an understated piece, to be sure—far too understated for Isabela’s tastes—but it seemed perfect for Merrill.

“A clan of Dalish had migrated to Llomerryn since I’d been there last,” Isabela explained. “They make all these pieces of jewelry out of whale bones.”

Slipping the necklace over her head and around her neck, Merrill practically skipped around Varric and Hawke to give Isabela another hug. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Well, we’ve got the strange, the vulgar, the sweet, and the practical,” Varric announced, holding his gift on his lap. “Which will I get?”

“It’s in at least one of those categories,” Isabela replied. She was excited about this one.

After opening the box, Varric picked up his present, a slim stack of bound parchment, and held it out in front of him, turning it side to side, clearly displaying the cover illustration: a scantily-clad woman in a rather suggestive pose. He flipped through it with a look of both curiosity and admiration as everyone else craned their necks to get a better view.

“Did you get me a smutty magazine?” he asked, peering at the foreign swirls of Rivaini text featured alongside the pictures.

Isabela grinned. “Absolutely. _The Void's Own_ is prized literature. It’s like _The Randy Dowager_ , except not for Orlesian prudes. For one, there’s pictures. But actually, the articles and stories are the best part.” Her lewd short story about the Antivan queen getting featured in the 9:27 Dragon Spring quarterly was one of the highlights of her life. 

Varric tore his eyes away from the periodical just long enough to give her a skeptical look. “You realize I can’t read Rivaini, right?”

“Oh, that’s a pity, isn’t it? But ooh,” she remembered, “there’s usually an ‘exotic fantasies’ section in the Llomerryn edition. This month’s might be one you can read. Look towards the back.”

“Your familiarity with this work really shouldn’t surprise me, should it?” Varric turned the pages until the curling script turned to something blocky and angular. “Aha! Something in the King’s Tongue.” His eyes skimmed over the words and he chuckled. “Oh, let me stand up and give this piece the theatricality it so richly deserves.”

Rising to his feet, Varric turned to face the group, paper in hand. He cleared his throat and began to read in a loud, dramatic voice for the whole bar to hear:

_"And hugging her to heavenly rest,_  
_My hand reposing on her breast!_  
_Her arse my own, her thighs my screen._  
_My penis standing in between!”_

Isabela nodded her approval as the others snickered—even Aveline, who did a very poor job concealing her laughter behind her hand. This sounded like one of Lord Wellrod’s works. He certainly had a way with rhyme and meter.

_"My bollocks hanging down below._  
_And banging 'gainst her arse of snow;_  
_Or else grasped firmly in her hand,_  
_To make my yard more stiffly stand.”_

Varric paused. “Wouldn’t suggest grasping _those_ firmly, but different strokes for different folks, I suppose.” He continued:

_“What dull and senseless lumps we'd be,_  
_If never of felicity_  
_We tasted; and what bliss is there_  
_To equal that of fucking rare?”_

He swept into a bow as everyone clapped and cheered, including Corff, Norah, and the man by the fireplace. “I think it’s reasonable to say cheers to that,” Varric proclaimed, taking his pint from the table and holding it aloft. “To reunions, to apologies, and to fucking rare. Cheers!”

They all echoed the sentiment, clinked mugs, and Isabela had never felt so relieved and content as she did then—surrounded by her friends, drinking and laughing, with Hawke’s arm tight around her.

“You didn’t get Hawke anything?” Merrill asked when the ruckus finally died down.

“Pfft. She gets me in her bed every night. What greater gift could there be?” Isabela smiled, even as her pulse suddenly picked up speed. “But I do… actually have something.”

“You do?” Hawke asked, eyebrows raised.

“I do. I didn’t wrap it, so you’ll have to close your eyes and hold out your hands.” 

Hawke dutifully complied, and Isabela fished around in her pocket until she found what she was looking for. It wasn’t big or flashy or expensive; it hadn’t cost her a copper, actually, but she hoped Hawke liked it.

When Hawke felt the gift placed in her hands, she opened her eyes, looked down, and the expression on her face made Isabela feel as though her heart could no longer fit in her chest.

“Is this a mabari? Oh, it even has kaddis painted on it!” Hawke held the driftwood carving close to her face, inspecting the details. “I can’t believe you were able to buy something like this in Rivain.”

“I didn’t. I… I made it, actually,” Isabela admitted, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck, embarrassed. “I had a lot of time to kill on the island, so I sat on the docks and watched the boats and carved pieces of driftwood.” She wished she had thought to give the present to Hawke in private; this public display of sentimentality was likely doing a number on her fearsome reputation. But, she supposed, the others needed to see that she cared for Hawke.

“You made this?” Hawke’s eyes sparkled like the tides at midday. 

“I did. And I swear on Andraste’s burning bush, if _any_ of you bastards tease me about it, I _will_ break your kneecaps and throw you into the harbor,” Isabela threatened, just in case they thought she was going soft. Though it was probably far too late for that.

And then Hawke kissed her, and Isabela really had gone soft, hadn’t she?

“That’s so cute I could just throw up,” Varric said, but his smile said it all. “Who needs another drink?”

\------

Time had slipped into the small hours of the morning when Anders, Merrill, and Fenris eventually bade them farewell. Aveline, surprisingly, seemed reluctant to leave, though she surely must have a patrol in the morning. When Hawke finally left Isabela’s side to chat with Varric at the other end of the room, however, Aveline sat on the stool next to Isabela’s, the way she did three years ago, when Aveline had insisted on indulging in romanticisms. And apparently, she had waited all night to indulge in some more.

“You love her,” she said, voice hushed like she was sharing some great secret, and Isabela wondered just how much ale the guard captain had gone through that evening. “I could see it then, and I see it now.”

Isabela did not reply, only took a sip of her watered-down beer.

“Why won’t you admit it?”

Because it was painful? Because she wasn’t ready? Because she had only just come back to Hawke a week ago, and for fuck’s sake, could she not have a moment to enjoy this feeling without thinking about its classification? Why did everyone insist on shoving it down her throat?

But Aveline was like a dog with a bone, and she would never let it go. “You don’t think Hawke deserves to know?”

Isabela sighed, placed her cup on the bar, and turned to face her. “Aveline,” she said, making sure she had the other woman’s complete attention, because she would only say this once. “The word ‘love’ and I have a rather traumatic history with one another, the details of which I will not get into with you this evening. I care for Hawke. _Very_ deeply,” she emphasized, hoping the weight of her words would get through Aveline’s thick skull. “I should think that’s been made quite obvious by now. But I’m not going to say I love her. Not until I’m ready. Not a moment before. And that will just have to be good enough for you and for everyone else.”

“And I thought I was stubborn. But fine, have it your way.” Aveline slid off the stool, her interrogation apparently ended. “Thank you for the gifts. I’ll let you know how the vambraces work out. I will _not_ let you know how the other thing works out.” She smirked.

“Spoilsport. Use lots of lubricant,” Isabela advised, earning a blush and a rude gesture before Aveline went to say goodbye to Hawke and Varric.

Isabela wandered over to the pair, who were in a heated discussion over the merits of rye versus corn whiskey.

“I’m not planning on making the walk all the way to Hightown at this hour, I hope you know,” said Isabela.

“Can’t say I’d like to do that, either,” Hawke replied.

Varric sighed. “You’re both staying here? I’ll get my earplugs,” he grumbled, then walked away, throwing his hands up in a dramatic display of grievance. “Three years! Three years of peaceful sleep! It was glorious!”

As they walked up the stairs, hand in hand, Isabela glanced at Hawke. “I think that went well.”

“I knew it would. They’re your friends too, after all. And you’re a very good gift-giver.”

“You think so?”

“Judging by their reactions, I would say so, yes. And I love what you got me.”

Isabela led Hawke into her room. “I’m glad you like it. Though I’m thinking I should have given it to you in private. I thought I was going to die of embarrassment.”

Closing the door with her foot, Hawke draped her arms over Isabela’s shoulders. “Yes, maybe you should have. Because the way I want to thank you isn’t fit for public view.” She leaned in for a deep, smoldering kiss, which Isabela returned with equal fervor, guiding Hawke toward the bed.

And maybe Isabela didn’t have a four poster with silk sheets, but Hawke never seemed to mind, because Kirkwall’s Champion had Lowtown blood, and she was Isabela’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord Wellrod's poem comes from a short-lived Victorian periodical called "The Pearl," found by the charming [dalish-ish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elavellan/pseuds/dalish-ish). Sadly, I am not that talented :)


	24. Act 3, Part 4: "Control"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poe: "Control"  
>  _Well, you may be king for the moment_  
>  _But I am a queen, understand?_  
>  _And I’ve got your pawns and your bishops_  
>  _And castles all inside the palm of my hand_
> 
>  
> 
> I am going to mess around with several canon events here. Also, content warning for graphic physical violence and threats of sexual violence.

“The Champion slumming in Darktown? Oh, what will the neighbors say?”

“The air is too fresh in Hightown. I miss that special suffocating feeling from breathing chokedamp.” They picked their way down the steps to the Undercity, mindful of the slime. “And anyway, you think a _Fereldan_ being called Champion hasn’t caused enough talk amongst the neighbors already? Really, me going to Darktown is exactly what they would expect.” Hawke glanced at Isabela. “But… why _are_ we going here, anyway?”

“Because I need new daggers. I feel naked without them.” She shivered, and it wasn’t only because she was without her main weapons; Darktown was always drafty and clammy, like a wet blanket. A filthy wet blanket. “And while you might be able to find a good sword at the Hightown markets, shorter, stabbier weapons are better down here.”

“What happened to your old ones? I can’t imagine you just lost them.”

“No, I didn’t lose them. I threw them into the ocean.” There was no use lying about it.

Hawke stopped outside the entrance to the tunnels. “You… what?”

“Do you remember when I told you about my first love, that Starkhaven man?” She waited for Hawke’s nod. “Those daggers were his. I stole them from his desk before I ran away. But it didn’t feel right to keep them anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think the woman who stole them and the woman I am now are different people, and I didn’t enjoy being reminded of that every time I unsheathed them.” Isabela sensed this conversation was growing far too serious and shifted her tone. “Besides, I was getting tired of looking at them. I’m like a jackdaw; I like new and shiny things.”

Hawke didn’t push. “Fair enough. Let’s get you something new and shiny, then.”

Rotted wood intermingled with stone and brick and lichen as they entered the tunnels, the chokedamp immediately finding a heavy home in Isabela’s lungs, leaving each breath more shallow than the last. A forgotten mineshaft for forgotten people, Darktown was Kirkwall’s shame, harboring those for whom even Lowtown was too much to hope for. Isabela hated it.

They stopped at Holger’s stand, deep within the bowels of the Undercity, the stench of the sewers wafting up from beneath their feet. Holger was Carta, but his wares were right and he never seemed to mind how thin the Carta’s ranks had become since Hawke moved to Kirkwall—“Less competition for me!” he would always say. A happy coincidence, surely.

“Ah, my favorite customer,” he greeted as they approached. Holger managed to both sound and look like the wall of a cave, damp and craggy. “Do you need more lockpicks already? I thought you were supposed to be a _good_ thief.” Catching sight of Hawke, he immediately sobered. “Oh, good day, Champion,” he mumbled, bowing his head and holding his hands out, palms up, a show of deference Isabela thought bordered on mockery.

“Don’t act like you haven’t seen Hawke down here dozens of times in the last eight years, you sodding nuglicker. I’m finding myself in need of new daggers. A right and a left,” Isabela replied. Was this how it was going to be now? This faux-worship from everyone? How did Hawke stand it? 

Holger waved his hand over the table, where an array of utterly mundane weaponry sat collecting dust. “Take your pick.”

“You really want to play games with me, Holger? You think I’m some wet-behind-the-ears thug trash just poking her head out from her mother’s skirts for the first time? Get the good shit.”

Holger grunted, then turned to yell at an unseen helper obscured behind stacks of crates. “Hey, elf! The nice lady wants the special stabby merchandise. Bring it out for her.”

“Fine, fine,” groused the assistant, and something about her voice poked at the back of Isabela’s mind. Then a mop of dirty blonde hair and two large, pointed ears popped up from behind a box, and Isabela gasped.

“Amelie?”

The rest of Amelie’s head appeared, blue eyes as wide as dinner plates, and she all but threw the box of daggers on the table, vaulting over it and crashing into Isabela hard enough to nearly knock her over. When they parted from their brief embrace, Isabela held Amelie by the shoulders, and was startled to find she didn’t have to look down for their eyes to meet. A growth spurt must have hit in the last three years, though Amelie was just as weedy as ever. The cut above her eye had scarred, leaving a slash of bare skin through her eyebrow Isabela was sure Amelie found very intimidating.

“Look at you!” Isabela said as a rosy tinge crossed Amelie’s cheeks. “I can’t very well call you ‘little dove’ anymore, can I?”

How old was she now? Fifteen? Maker, and she still looked so young. An old wound flashed hot—did she look that young when she was sold?

“I take it you two know each other?” asked Hawke, a merciful interruption.

Isabela forced herself to stop picking at old scars. “You know how when baby ducks hatch they sort of... latch on to whatever they see first like it’s their mother? Well, this is my duckling, Amelie.” And living, breathing proof that Isabela would make a terrible mother.

“Quit fraternizing with the customers,” Holger barked. “What do I even pay you for?

Amelie whipped her head around, middle finger raised. “Get fucked, you crusty old prick.”

Hawke raised her eyebrows. “I see she’s taken after your more charming qualities,” she said, giving Isabela a knowing smile.

“You won’t believe me, but I tried to keep her mouth clean. To no avail, apparently,” Isabela sighed.

Amelie rolled her eyes. “You said I could swear like a sailor once I worked on a ship. Well, I tried that, and it was bloody awful. You can keep your ships. I’m happy with my feet on the ground. Oh,” she said, apparently remembering why they were there in the first place. “You wanted daggers, right?” She rummaged through the crate and pulled out two knives. “Holger’s been sitting on these for ages, but I know a good pair of blades when I see them.”

“Ancestors, kid, you’re not gonna sell those to a human! Those are,” he lowered his voice to a harsh whisper, “Carta weapons.”

“Look, I’ve seen Isabela in a fight, and she’s better than anyone else you sell to, Carta or not,” Amelie snapped, and Isabela couldn’t help feeling a swell of pride. “They’re not making you any gold living in a box.”

Carta or no, they were good daggers. Volcanic aurum lended the metal a shadowy tint that blended into the obsidian of the hilts. The single-edged blades had a slight curve to them, similar to her old ones, a trait she preferred when dual-wielding, but these were thinner, more delicate. She picked them up, felt their weight. The grips were designed for smaller hands—a blessing in her case—and their heft felt perfect. Holding them up to the scant available light, she could see the dwarven runes glowing faintly along the blunt edge. She was no mage, but the power tingling through her fingers was undeniable. She flipped the daggers into a reverse grip, spun them around her hands a few times (more for Hawke’s benefit than anything else), then slammed the right one point-first into the table, making Holger jump. As she suspected, the daintiness of the blades was deceptive; they were far stronger than they looked. Fitting.

“They’re all right,” she said, underselling it. “I suppose I can take them.” They would need names, she realized, something more suitable than Backstabber or Heartbreaker. That would require some serious pondering at a later time.

After an intense bout of haggling, she paid—well, Hawke paid, but that was beside the point. Amelie tagged along with them, declaring to Holger that she was “taking a break,” a point to which he appeared to take some contention.

“So, you’re the famous Champion of Kirkwall,” Amelie said, sizing Hawke up as they attempted to get to higher ground, away from the stench of sewer. “I don’t see the big deal.”

Hawke chuckled. “That makes two of us. Isabela is far more famous than I am.” She dodged Isabela’s half-hearted swat. “But how did you two meet?”

Before Isabela had time to craft a proper response, or think, or breathe, Amelie, bless her gabby mouth, butted in: “I was her best informant. I helped her find that book she was looking for. You _did_ find it, didn’t you?”

“Oh, really?” Hawke drawled, smiling as Isabela cringed. “So you could tell an actual child about this special book that had the Qunari in Kirkwall for years and got me stabbed through the gut, but not any of your friends? Or, you know, me?”

Amelie stopped and threw her hand out. “Wait. _That_ was why the Qunari were here? You just said the Raiders needed it!”

“And the plot thickens!” Hawke laughed, and Isabela thought perhaps it would be better to take a leap out the gaps in Darktown’s walls into the harbor than continue listening to this conversation. “Yes, our dear Isabela stole a holy relic from the Qunari, which they could not leave Kirkwall without, then proceeded to keep that little tidbit a secret for literal years, until the Qunari decided to burn the city to the ground.” Hawke’s grin was absolutely wicked. “It appears we were both played, Amelie. But your information must have been sound, because she did end up finding it.” 

“Huh.” Amelie palmed her chin. “An impressive bit of deception. I can’t be mad about that.”

“You will never let me live that down, will you?” Isabela asked, even as Hawke wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“Absolutely not.”

They meandered toward Lowtown, and Isabela and Amelie had the chance to catch up. To her credit, the girl had stayed out of trouble, or at least as much as she could stand, picking up odd jobs, staying clear of the worst of Kirkwall’s gangs. She finally convinced Corff to serve her a beer, she announced with pride, and claimed it was so disgusting she never gave it another shot. And Isabela told her of Rivain, how different it was from Kirkwall, and watched Amelie grow wistful, even as she tried to hide it behind a pair of skyward eyes and a sneer. She would be all right, Isabela knew, and that thought was more of a relief than she anticipated.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you again after you found the stupid book,” Amelie said, clasping her hands behind her head as they walked. “But when I heard that Castillon bloke was in town, I had a feeling you’d come with him.”

Isabela froze. “Castillon is here? In Kirkwall? Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” Amelie scowled, clearly offended. “You think I don’t know how to listen by now? You’re not with the Raiders? Weren’t you supposed to give the book to him?”

“Long story short, I didn’t. The Armada still wants me dead.” She struggled to remain composed. Years in Llomerryn, years watching ships flying the blindfolded skull pull into port, and not one whiff of that Antivan bastard. And as soon as she came back to Kirkwall, there he was. Of course. She had almost started to believe he had given up. A foolish dream.

Hawke’s hand drifted to Isabela’s lower back, a quiet, steady pressure. “Do you know where he is? Or if he’s after Isabela?” she asked Amelie.

“I’ve heard nothing of Isabela, I swear it. And I don’t know where he’s at, but he did come in with a bunch of men who went straight for the brothels. The name Velasco ring any bells?”

“Castillon’s right-hand man. I’m familiar,” Isabela said. She had rung _his_ bell before. Definitely wasn’t worth it, but it could prove an avenue for getting to Castillon, if she played her cards right.

Amelie seemed to have the same idea. “Well, I’d say check the Rose. Looks like you’ll be testing those new daggers sooner than you thought, eh?”

\------

It was a simple enough plan. Hawke would turn her in to Velasco, Velasco would take her to Castillon, Hawke and Varric would trail behind, mounting a heroic rescue. The Felicísima Armada would have one fewer captain, and Isabela would finally have a ship. She would have freedom.

Could she kill him, if that’s what it came down to? It shouldn’t be a hard decision, really. She had spent over seven years living in fear of his retribution. If their situations were reversed, she knew, he would not hesitate to end her life. And beyond that, the man was objectively a monster. Not that any of the Raiders were pure souls—herself included—but Castillon sold refugees into slavery. You didn't get much lower than that. It would probably be a net good for the universe if he was no longer in it. When did she start to care about things like that?

A strange thing to be pondering, perhaps, as Velasco and his cronies dragged her to the docks. She put up a good show, of course. Punched one Raider in the face, kneed another in the bollocks. Got herself a nice black eye for the trouble, but it was worth it. She couldn’t just tie a bow around her ass and prance off to Castillon. It had to be convincing.

She hoped Hawke and Varric weren’t far behind. Velasco she could handle, maybe his two friends, if she could snatch her daggers back from them, but there were likely more with Castillon. And he was no slouch in a fight, either. She resisted the urge to look behind her. Hawke would be there, she knew it.

“I sure hope that’s a knife poking into my back and not anything else,” she said as they marched her down yet another flight of stairs. It wasn’t easy going, especially with one of the Raiders locking her arms behind her back. Really, if he was going to be practically riding her, he ought to buy her a drink first.

No one gave her the courtesy of a response. Instead, after a bit more marching, Velasco opened the door to a nondescript building north of the quays and shoved her inside. The strange sense of calm she had throughout the entire journey, borne of trust and bravado, swiftly evaporated. If Hawke wasn’t close enough to see them go into the building… this was it. Isabela’s mouth grew dry.

A small warehouse, one of dozens littering the docks. A great place to stash cargo… both the inanimate and those of flesh and blood. The stacks of crates could serve as cover in a pinch, she thought. Three doors to her left, a set of stairs to her right, likely leading to offices, and no backdoors in immediate view. If Hawke and Varric followed behind her, they would be in a tight spot on the low ground. Another half dozen men loitered around the warehouse, most with dirks or sabres. Those weren’t as concerning as the archers in the back. Velasco, the idiot, hadn’t thought to check her for throwing knives. Those might be her saviors if her aim was true. She worked to calm her nerves, visualizing the perfect throw, right into Velasco’s eye.

Velasco leaned against a wood pillar, his nonchalance a contrast to his earlier rage. “You know,” he said, not bothering to hide his leer, “I remember the night we spent together. Make yourself useful with a repeat performance, and I can tell Castillon to go easy on you when he arrives.”

She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or spit in his face. They were all the same. “Velasco,” she replied, barely keeping the lid on her anger, “I would rather Castillon string me up by my ankles, cut my tongue out, and flay the skin from my back than _ever_ get within a mile of that pathetic cock of yours again.” Her mouth was likely digging her grave, but she would be damned if he thought she was interested in using her cunt as a bargaining chip.

That earned her a backhand across the face. “Bitch,” Velasco snarled. “I will have what I want. I _own_ you now.”

It was fortunate one of the Raiders restrained her then, because Velasco would have been without a working windpipe and she would have been without a life.

“You want her throat cut, just say the word. I’d like to give these daggers a go,” said the man wrenching her arms back.

“No. Castillon needs her alive,” Velasco said, and smiled. “Besides, I like the feisty ones. It’s no fun when they just lay there and take it.”

Despite the ringing in her ears, Isabela heard a faint whistle, then a wet thud as a crossbow bolt slammed into the neck of the Raider behind her. She spun, snatched her daggers back as he fell to his knees, and ducked behind some crates while arrows rained down where she stood a moment before.

“Archers on the steps!” Isabela shouted. She was in their blindspot, but Hawke and Varric would be sitting ducks.

A body fell from above, crashed into the ground beside her, and didn’t move. 

“Got one!” Varric called from behind.

Hawke rushed forward, pulling Velasco and another Raider’s attention away from the two rogues, even as two more of Castillon’s lackeys ran from the back of the warehouse, blades drawn. 

Isabela emerged from behind the cargo, sidestepping around one of the men, parrying his cockeyed swing. Hawke knocked him off balance with a flick of her sword, and Isabela took advantage, flipping her right dagger into an forward grip and slipping it between his ribs. The ease with which the blade went in was both exhilarating and frightening; Holger had no idea the power he had sitting in that forgotten box. The Raider dropped his knives and fell to one knee, gasping, and then his head was separated from his shoulders by Hawke’s greatsword.

Circling around to put her back to Hawke’s, Isabela fended off a sabre arcing toward her face. “The things we get ourselves into,” she said.

“Speak for yourself,” Hawke replied, grunting as Velasco turned her blow aside. “I’m just here to save my damsel in distress.”

“Oh fuck you, Hawke.” Isabela saw one of the archers at the back of the warehouse go down in a heap and heard a happy yell from somewhere above. Bless that dwarf, she thought.

“Maybe later? Little busy here.” Hawke shifted her stance and brought the pommel of her sword cracking into the sabre-holder’s face. 

A quick swipe of Isabela’s left blade across his knuckles dropped the sabre, and her right blade darting into his neck dropped the man. An arrow whizzed past her head. One more archer, one more swordsman, and Velasco.

Make that one more archer and Velasco. Hawke took a blow to the hip from the Raider’s dirk, but she shrugged it off, and it gave her the opportunity to spin around her attacker and hamstring him. Glancing back, Isabela saw him begin to fall, and she swung her dagger behind her, curving it up and into his gut, smooth as silk.

She left the archer to Varric and Bianca and turned to face Velasco, who was currently well-occupied with Hawke’s sword. Keeping well out of the way of the massive blade’s arc, Isabela waited for an opening to flank him. 

Velasco was no amateur with his daggers; one didn’t become Castillon’s right hand without being an efficient murderer. Every time Hawke pressed forward, he retaliated, keeping Hawke on the defensive and ensuring Isabela had no room to sneak in.

But as good as he was, Isabela knew Hawke was better. Hawke’s fighting style was like her: controlled, measured, disciplined. She tended to hang back, using the reach of her weapon to her advantage, waiting for her opponent to lose patience and make a mistake, an error she could immediately punish. And she had heart. Isabela had seen Hawke take hits that would’ve dropped a lesser woman; she merely grimaced and kept going. Sometimes laughed, if it really stung. Though Isabela was never one to fight alongside others—her love of dueling didn’t lend itself particularly well to partners—she had to admit, she and Hawke made quite the team. As with everything else, Hawke was the rock, and Isabela, the water, flowing around her, finding every weakness Hawke exposed in their adversaries.

And find it she did. Hawke feinted a cross-body swing, and Velasco took the bait, overextending. Sidestepping, Hawke bent her wrists, angling the greatsword’s point toward the ground, and Velasco’s blade caught on the crossbar. Instinctively, Isabela rushed in, and the feeling of her dagger sinking into his back was exquisite. Velasco collapsed to his knees, and she grabbed him by the hair, forced him to look into her eyes as blood started to froth from his mouth.

 _“I_ own you,” she growled. She allowed him an attempt at groveling, then silenced his pitiful wheezing with her dagger across his throat.

A potent combination of battlelust, fear, and rage left Isabela shaky and breathless, hands on her knees. Hawke looked much the same, leaning heavily on her sword. When she walked over to Isabela, it was with the slightest limp; that hit she took must have been nastier than it looked.

“Are you all right? Did they hurt you?” Hawke said, her eyes flickering across Isabela’s face, which was no doubt swelling up nicely and turning a variety of interesting colors.

Isabela reached up with a hand to gently probe at her cheeks and winced. “My mouth got me into some trouble, as always, but I promise I gave as good as I got.”

“That was four dead pirates for me! Step it up, ladies!” Varric called from the landing.

“Ranged weapons are cheating!” Hawke yelled back. She looked around at the various corpses. “And were we lucky enough to have one of these dead pirates be Castillon?” she asked, nudging the headless Raider with her boot.

Kneeling, Isabela wiped her blades off on Velasco’s shirt until the black shined through the red once more. The coppery stench of blood clung to her nostrils, making her stomach roil. “No,” she replied, and a fresh surge of anxiety gripped her. “Velasco sent for him, though, so I expect he’ll be arriving shortly.”

She gave word to Varric to maintain the high ground. And now, to wait. A cursory search around the warehouse showed no other entrances nor any pirates hiding in the shadows. They kept their weapons at the ready and faced the front door.

It was strange to think this was all coming to an end. Equally strange to think of the countless contortions around the truth she made to keep Hawke from getting embroiled in this drama in the first place, and yet there Hawke was, right beside her, ready to risk it all—as Isabela always suspected she would. And, Isabela realized, taking in the grim determination settled in Hawke’s face, she would do the same for Hawke. Strange, indeed.

When Castillon arrived minutes later, two more of his men behind him, he didn’t seem surprised at the mess, delicately stepping around the blood like muddy rain puddles on a street.

“Velasco underestimated you, it seems.” He was all smiles, as though the killing of his crew was a favor. His daggers were kept sheathed, even while the grips of Isabela’s grew slick in her hands from sweat.

He looked much the same as the last time she saw him, his smug grin identical to the one he had when he so generously assigned her that “simple bit of thievery.” The same condescension, the same arrogance of a man who had never truly been tested at any point in his life. His ships, his merchant company, his slaver contacts, all of it from his father, or his father’s father. Nepotism gifted Castillon everything he owned, everything he claimed to have earned. He was no pirate, not a real one—just a boy in a man’s body trying on a costume and playing make-believe.

“He wasn’t the first,” she replied, hoping the lightness forced into her words would spread to her traitorous body, would still the tremors in her hands.

Castillon kept his posture relaxed, his hands in front of him, fingers splayed. “Come,” he said. “There’s no need for hostilities. Let us discuss this like civilized people.”

Talk? What could there possibly be to talk about? Isabela made no move to sheathe her blades, eying him warily. “Not much to discuss, is there? The book went back to Par Vollen, you lost out on your bathtubs of Tevinter gold, and I owe the Armada more than I could ever possibly repay.”

“You think I still care about that stupid book?” He laughed. “How long has it been? Almost a decade? I’ve made up for its loss a dozen times over. My company is expanding and bringing in more gold than I know what to do with.”

Isabela was not impressed. If she knew anything about him, his slavery business was the only thing expanding. “I got your letter years ago. ‘The Armada doesn’t forget.’ Why wouldn’t you collect on my life now that you have the chance?”

“You are far more valuable alive, and I am in a forgiving mood. You crashed your Siren’s Call into the rocks, yes? So, you are a captain without a ship, and now I am a captain without a right-hand man. Come back to the Armada, and we can both get what we want. The Queen of the Eastern Seas belongs on the waves, not stuck in a shithole like Kirkwall.”

His bald-faced attempt at flattery made her skin crawl. She could feel Hawke staring at her, could see the tension in her hands gripping the sword hilt. Hawke didn’t honestly believe Isabela would take a deal like that, did she? Nothing came from Castillon, or by extension, the Armada, without many, many strings attached, a hook baited with the promise of freedom. But she could play his game. Castillon was a proud man, and pride always made for useful leverage.

“And what’s to stop me from killing you and taking your ship for myself?” she asked flippantly. “That sounds like two problems solved to me.”

“Isabela.” Castillon sighed like a disappointed father. “Would you really stoop so low?”

A stupid question. She would, and she had. “Did you forget how the Siren’s Call became mine in the first place?”

“Fine.” He waved a hand dismissively. “If you insist on a fight… we duel," he said, and she knew he was now in her hands. "You and I, no seconds. Two daggers only, and to defeat, not to death. If you win, you take my ship and do with it as you will. I will ensure the Armada will no longer pursue you.”

“And if you win?” she asked, knowing the answer.

The smile faded, and his eyes grew cold. “Then you are mine until you repay your debt.”

“You swear it?”

“On my mother’s grave.” He bowed, ever the gentleman. “I trust you will follow the Armada’s code in this. You are an honorable woman, yes?”

“Of course I am,” she said, offering a bow in return. 

Isabela motioned for Hawke to step back while desperately trying to communicate with her eyes that she had the situation under control. Fortunately, Hawke seemed to understand, giving her a nod, placing her trust in Isabela’s hands, though concern still kept her sword at the ready.

Castillon smiled, pulled his daggers from his back, and settled into a fighting stance. Isabela followed suit, her left blade held out in front of her, the other above her head.

One breath, then two, and Castillon took a step forward.

Isabela held up two fingers on her right hand. A crossbow bolt whistled down from above, slamming into Castillon’s chest.

He gasped and pawed at the bolt, his daggers clattering to the ground. “You…” he sputtered, impotent rage twisting his face into a hateful grimace. A second bolt from Bianca and Hawke’s sword took care of his hired thugs, and Castillon, the scourge of Rialto Bay, the merchant prince, was left alone and defenseless. 

Slowly, she approached him, savoring every bit of his anger. She lifted his chin with her blade, let him get a good look at her, the blood of his crew spattered across her face. The woman he sent on a suicide mission, and now it was his life she held in her hands.

“Bold of you to assume I have any honor to spare for a slaver,” she purred. He began to tremble, choking on the blood leaking into his lungs, and she moved closer, watched his fury turn to fear, saw the sweat glistening on his forehead. Relishing the control, the power, she hissed through her teeth, “Or that I give a single fuck about the Armada or its code.”

For all his threats, all his power, all the terror he instilled in her for nearly a decade, Castillon was still just a man. And all men bleed, and all men die.

He fell to her feet, a new red smile in his neck, and she closed her eyes and sighed. It was done. She was free.

“That was five and a half for me,” came Varric’s voice beside her. “I’ll give you the assist for this asshole.”

“How generous of you,” Isabela said, and she suddenly felt possessed by sheer hysterical glee. “I'm going to wash all this blood off me, and then I want to see my ship.”

\------

The rope chafed in her hands as she raised the flag of Rivain, a golden trident against ocean blue, to the top of the mainmast. The previous occupant—the red and black Antivan standard—lay crumpled on the deck beside her. Castillon had a whole drawer of different flags meant to manipulate other ships in foreign waters. The blindfolded skull was among them, but she chose to leave that in the drawer. She would fly it when they neared Llomerryn, if only to secure a decent spot at port.

Grinning broadly, she looked at Hawke, who had her hands in her pockets, eyes taking in everything on the ship: the furled sails, the rigging, the bowsprit. Everything except Isabela.

“Terrible name, though. _El Diablo.”_ Isabela scowled. “Cliche pirate trash. We’ll have that scraped off her hull when I think of something better.”

The now unnamed vessel was a two-masted brigantine, a bit over one hundred tons burden. Larger than her Black Cat, half the size of Siren’s Call. A good mid-sized ship, speedy and maneuverable, but enough heft to not get bullied. Certainly could get her and Hawke out of Kirkwall when the need arose. And she hoped the need arose soon, because having a ship again brought back that old feeling, that restlessness in her bones.

“So, you finally have your boat. Are you excited to sail out of here?” Hawke asked, running her hand over the deck railing, staring out into the harbor.

Small obstacle to handle, first. “Of course, but I won’t be going anywhere without a crew. The good news,” Isabela remarked, and Hawke glanced back at her, “is that I can throw your name around and wave some gold, and the sailors will flock to me like gulls to a trash heap, no doubt about it.”

“That is good news, I suppose.” Hawke looked back to the water.

Isabela allowed herself the indulgence of fantasy: her and Hawke—plus whichever of their friends she could convince—leaving all this shit behind. The mages, the templars, the poverty, the nobles. She wasn’t sure where they would go, but as long as it was away from Kirkwall, that was fine by her. She could teach Hawke to sail. She could see the wind catch her hair, the sunlight bless her skin, that beautiful smile, all against a backdrop of endless blue. And, at long last, she had someone she could share her cabin with every night, someone she _wanted_ to share it with. Someone, she realized abruptly, she wanted to share everything with.

Caught up in her excitement, she almost missed Hawke walking back to the dock, silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously I changed a few things from the Castillon confrontation. I found the original to be really unsatisfying and a hamfisted implementation of the friendship/rivalry system. There's no reason you couldn't kill Castillon AND get his ship, and the whole "oh, I can't kill a man and steal his ship, that's amateurish!" is so... dumb. He threatened her life for seven years and is a huge slaver? Like... nah. That's personal. She's gonna want to kill him. Presenting otherwise feels like a false dichotomy. Anyway, I chose to use the power of fanfic on this one. I hope it worked!


	25. Act 3, Part 5: "Riptides"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scavenger Hunt: "Riptides"  
>  _I see you tread water_  
>  _Fight riptides_  
>  _They keep pulling you out_  
>  _Pulling you out to sea_  
>  _When you go_  
>  _You won’t go down without me now_
> 
> Takes place immediately after previous chapter.

“Hawke!”

Hawke did not stop, or look, or otherwise acknowledge Isabela’s presence. She stared resolutely ahead and kept walking, kept trying to hide the limp that had steadily grown worse since the fight with the Raiders. 

Calling her name again to no avail, Isabela broke into a trot down the gangplank and across the dock until she was in front of Hawke, denying her escape. Hawke turned her head away, chose to face the harbor instead of the woman in front of her, and it took all Isabela had in her not to grab Hawke by the shoulders and force a confrontation. The exhilaration filling her mere moments before fled like smoke in a breeze, leaving her concerned and lost.

“Where are you going?” Isabela asked, though she doubted Hawke had any particular destination in mind. This was something Isabela knew all too well: frightened, senseless flight.

Hawke watched the tides crest and break into the limestone, looking as though she wanted to dive in with them. “I should see Meredith,” she said curtly. “I’ve been avoiding her for days.”

Meredith could easily be avoided a little while longer, Isabela thought. She had never met the Knight-Commander, but knew she was volatile at best, and Hawke seemed in no mental state to play politics with a deranged despot.

“You should see Anders first. Don’t think I can’t see that limp.” And maybe Hawke didn’t need to be scolded like a child, but Isabela knew exactly what would come out of Hawke’s mouth next.

“It’s fine.”

“Bullshit. That line doesn’t work on me,” Isabela said, and her words came firing out of her mouth like arrows despite her efforts to hold them back. “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy about this.” 

“I am happy for you,” Hawke insisted, shifting from foot to foot.

Happy for _her?_ This wasn’t about her. This was about them, together. This was about the option to leave, to escape a city seemingly incapable of lasting a year without a massive conflict. This was about sharing the most important thing in her life with the most important person in her life. Wasn’t it?

“That’s not what I meant. Can we go back to the ship? Or anywhere else that’s not here?” It was the middle of the afternoon, peak time for the docks, and workers flowed around them, ferrying cargo and shouting obscenities.

The suggestion, innocuous as it was, tipped Hawke into spite. “What’s there to say? You’ve got your ship. Good for you. Some of us don’t have the luxury of leaving whenever we want.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Isabela shot back, confusion providing her a mirror to Hawke’s irritation.

“Tell me something, and be honest,” Hawke said, and Isabela didn’t miss the emphasis on that last word. “If I wasn’t there when Castillon gave you the offer to go back to the Raiders, would you have taken it?”

“Are you serious? No!” The very idea was offensive. “I’ve told you, I’m done with them. I’d be a fool to trust a man like Castillon.”

Hawke stared at her then, her normally impenetrable expression traded for emotions clear as day: sadness, anger, fear. And what she said next hurt far worse than anything the Raiders could have done.

“And am I a fool for trusting you?”

Isabela felt the ground drop out from under her. “What?”

“You heard me. Am I a fool for trusting that I won’t wake up tomorrow to find you’ve sailed off? Left me heartbroken and crying on the dock, just like you said you would?” Tears glimmered bright in Hawke’s eyes, a self-fulfilling prophecy, like Isabela had already left.

“I wouldn’t—”

“You wouldn’t? You already did. Twice. Third time’s the charm, isn’t it?” Hawke’s sarcasm, typically saved for lighthearted jests, cut like a well-honed knife when wielded as a weapon.

Unable to keep feeding her anger, Isabela turned away, looked back at her ship, and wished it would sink to the bottom of the bay. It figured, didn’t it? Years of drawing lines in the sand, trying to maintain distance, and now that Isabela was finally ready to be with her, Hawke was pushing her away.

“Hawke. That’s not fair.” She wouldn’t fight, she couldn’t fight. Hawke possessed her heart; if she wanted to break it, it was far too late to protect it.

“I… dammit.” Hawke sighed and ran a hand through her hair, pacing back and forth along the docks in an attempt to calm herself. When she returned to Isabela after a small eternity of walking and self-argument, her hostility had washed away, leaving contrition in its place.

“You’re right,” Hawke said. “I’m sorry. I just… I thought I was fine—with you, with us—and then this situation with Castillon happened, and you have this ship now, and it would be so easy for you to just…” Her voice faded, nearly lost to the waves. “... Leave.”

So, there was the crux. It was easy to think they had picked up where things left off, without the spectre of the Arishok fight and Isabela’s absence looming behind them. But the cracks were there, lurking in the foundation, and they needed to be filled before they tried building anything else atop it. Isabela was never one to build things; destruction was her forte, not creation. Something else she would have to learn.

Isabela approached Hawke and touched one of the arms Hawke had wrapped tight around herself like armor. No words, no pressure, only a quiet suggestion; she waited until Hawke’s arms unfolded and she opened back up before beginning to speak.

“Listen. I’m not going anywhere without you,” Isabela vowed, walking a tightrope between firm conviction and vulnerability. “I told you I’m staying, and I will. My ship’s—” Pausing, she reconsidered. “No, _our_ ship’s anchor stays dropped until you’re ready. As long as it takes.” She grasped Hawke’s upper arms. “Hawke. Please look at me.” Slowly, Hawke’s eyes shifted to meet hers, and Isabela willed each word to unerringly cross the distance between them: “I want to be with you. I need you to trust me.”

“I know. You’ve been nothing but wonderful since you came back. You’re trying to make things right, I can see that. This is on me, not you.” Hawke crinkled her nose. “I’m overthinking things again, aren’t I?”

“You? Never!” Isabela laughed and stepped forward to bring Hawke into her arms. “Maferath’s hairy taint, woman. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Hawke made a retching noise, then giggled. “He would have a hairy taint, wouldn’t he?”

“Oh, the worst. Like a jungle. Probably why Andraste left him. Couldn’t stand having to bring a machete to bed every night.”

“Is that what they teach the children in Rivain? That explains so much, really.”

“And I wasn’t even raised around Andrastians, so you can imagine how extremely confusing the whole thing is when you only gets bits and pieces over the years. Who is this woman, how is she from literally every country in Thedas, why is her taste in men so terrible? Makes creative blaspheming more fun, though. Speaking of which,” Isabela said, giving Hawke a quick kiss on the cheek before pulling back from their embrace, “you should take me with you to see the Knight-Commander.”

Hawke snorted. “You’re joking. Why would you willingly put yourself within a mile of that woman?”

“Because someone has to save you if she calls for your execution,” Isabela replied, and both women knew there was a kernel of truth hiding under the levity.

“Ugh. Maybe preparing the ship for a quick getaway isn’t such a bad idea, after all.” Hawke’s gaze turned toward the Gallows, looming dark and immense across the harbor. But there was something towering in between now, something that wasn’t there before, drawing Hawke’s eyes away from Kirkwall’s corrupted Circle.

“I hate that fucking statue.”

\------

Isabela trailed behind Hawke, her unacknowledged shadow, as they crossed the footbridge to the Gallows courtyard. It was hard to believe Hawke was the same nameless Lowtown merc Varric introduced her to all those years ago; each step seemed to bring a new voice hailing the Champion, some with awe, some with derision, some with indifference. The guards, the templars, the dock workers, the Tranquil, the merchants, the beggars—all had words for Hawke, all had time to spare to watch her walk by, a demigod in their midst.

Hawke offered all of her supplicants nothing more than a curt nod, her face a mask of stone. Three years of this. Was it novel at the start, Isabela wondered, when that horrible wound had finally healed and Meredith granted her the title? Did she ever enjoy the attention? Leandra would have been pleased, certainly, to see her eldest child at the height of power and recognition. But Hawke looked more weary with every strike of her boots against the flagstones, her shoulders dropping forward, head lowered, like she wanted nothing more than to hide. The Fereldan refugee had more pride than Kirkwall’s Champion.

It was still difficult for Isabela to reconcile her own place in this. She knew Hawke would never deny their relationship to try and save face, but it was strange to be the Champion’s invisible lover. Part of her enjoyed the subterfuge, the way the stacks of marriage proposals and love letters from starry-eyed suitors would pile up on the desk while Isabela claimed Hawke for her own every night. But part of her wanted to grab Hawke and kiss her fiercely right in the middle of the bloody Gallows, an open challenge to those who thought they knew who Hawke was and what she wanted. _This_ was your Champion, people of Kirkwall. Those pompous fools in Hightown—the ones who would simper to Hawke’s face then mutter “filthy dog lord” to her back—could choke.

But there would be no displays of defiance from her. Not yet. She stayed at Hawke’s side as they passed through the massive archway leading to the courtyard. Isabela had largely missed the funnel into the Gallows when she first arrived in Kirkwall; Martin had paid her way in past the gates, and some good old fashioned midnight sneaking took care of the rest. She knew Hawke, on the other hand, spent ages here with her family and Aveline, waiting for her shithead of an uncle to make good on promises he could never hope to keep. What was it like, being caged in here with countless other refugees, suffering in the shadows of all these morbid statues? There was some irony, she thought, in keeping the imposing bronze Tevinter magisters flanking the steps to the Gallows proper. She assumed they were supposed to serve as a poignant warning to rebellious mages, or perhaps a motivational tool for diffident templars: maintain the status quo or these statues will be made flesh once more. But slavery was slavery, oppression was oppression, and it didn’t matter who held the whip, and it didn’t matter if they wore magister robes or plate armor.

And the plate armor was out in force today. Everywhere Isabela looked, shiny breastplates emblazoned with flaming swords reflected what little sunlight managed to pass through Kirkwall’s overcast sky. How could the Kirkwall Order still maintain so many templars? Certainly the risk of blood mages, Meredith’s consuming paranoia, and the threat of all-out war ought to thin their ranks somewhat. But no, there seemed to be more than ever, soulless automatons hiding behind the slits in their helmets, barking orders at their helpless mage thralls. However, upon closer inspection, none of them were mages, not anymore. The brands on their foreheads made that clear. They were all Tranquil, every last one. Isabela swallowed her disgust and followed Hawke up the stairs.

“I’m surprised they let you into the actual Circle. It takes balls to show that level of depravity to a stranger,” Isabela said as they trudged up toward the fortress, if only to break the silence.

Hawke’s steps were heavy. “I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that they don’t care what I see, or the fact that what I see is starting not to faze me anymore.”

“Hawke… you know you don’t have to do this.”

“I know, but I still feel like I have to try.” Hawke paused her ascent and turned around, looking down on the city that was supposedly hers. “At the start, it seemed like I could hold things together. But now?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Isabela remembered the talk they had after Leandra’s death. All those flights of stairs. Hawke would let this fucking city destroy her. Isabela wanted nothing more than to save her, to somehow convince her to leave Kirkwall to its inevitable self-cannibalization, but Hawke was stubborn. She would hold on to any scrap of hope she could find, even as everything else fell apart around her. It was what pushed her through the trauma constantly threatening to crush her. And, Isabela assumed, it was the same trait that kept their relationship alive after her three year absence.

Isabela linked their hands together as they neared the entrance. “Whatever ridiculous cause you want to fight for… I’m with you,” she promised. But she would keep the ship ready, just in case.

The templars posted at the door let them in without incident. A shame; Isabela was hoping to cause a scene.

The first thing to hit her were the sounds. The screams, of course, took precedence. Though most weren’t screams of pain—they lacked the particular shrieking notes evoked by torture. No, these were the dull, unwavering screams of people simply dying for someone to hear them. She thought Circles were supposed to be places of study—a safe, peaceful environment where mages could learn to control their powers. This, however, felt like a breeding ground for abominations. Or merely an overstuffed warehouse for holding every magic-user in the entire city, she mused, as the smell of the Gallows was the next thing to assault her senses.

Isabela was no stranger to prison cells. But her stints in jail always offered the silver lining of an end. The mages trapped here had no hope of freedom unless they made it into the mage underground. Or died. It made no sense to her. Even the Dairsmuid Circle was nothing like this, and that still felt like an overbearing intrusion against her culture. What would Meredith think of the Llomerryn seers? No templars, no Chantry, purposeful spirit possession? The Knight-Commander would lose her bloody mind. And what if the seers were right, and she and Hawke were spirit-touched? Could Meredith sense that? It wasn’t magic, not really, but Isabela didn’t know the extent of templar powers. But she did have an idea regarding the extent of Meredith’s delusions, and _those_ held enough power all on their own. She hoped the hurricane stayed quiet.

“The Templar Hall is in the back, up a few levels,” Hawke said, her face and voice bereft of feeling. “Try not to take too much of the scenery in, or you’ll go mad.”

Given Hawke’s experience with the place, Isabela did her best to follow Hawke’s lead, but it was hard to avoid seeing the endless rows of cells, their filthy, emaciated inhabitants—some of them children—desperately pleading for Hawke to save them. Their cries for the Champion’s mercy seemed to fall on deaf ears as Hawke marched to the stairs at the opposite end of the ground floor, her neck rigidly fixed to keep her gaze locked straight ahead. Isabela could see a muscle twitching in Hawke’s jaw as she quickened her pace to keep up.

They climbed, up and up, past more stacks of cells, more templars. Not as many templars as there ought to be, though, to contain all these mages, Isabela thought. As battered and broken as they were, if they all rallied together… well, Isabela hoped she and Hawke would be fifty leagues out to sea if that happened. Maybe she could take a few apostates with them, but that would be the extent of her aid in any rebellion. She was no Anders.

The dusty limestone floors abruptly gave way to polished slate covered with lush hand-woven rugs as they entered the administrative wing of the Circle, the horror fading away behind them. Hawke stopped then, leaned against the wall, and let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since they entered the fortress.

“I hate this,” she whispered, sparing a glance at the templar at the end of the hall before turning back to Isabela, the nightmare of the Gallows finally cracking her armor, twisting her face into a pained grimace.

Isabela reached out and took Hawke’s hand back within her own, gently working out the tension with her fingertips. “I know,” she said. “But you can’t save them all.”

“I’m not sure I can save any of them at this point. I just think of Bethany being here, and I…” Hawke trailed off, looking down at the floor. “Maybe the Wardens were a kinder fate.”

“Come on. Let’s get this over with and get out of here.”

Hawke led her to the end of the hall. A templar stood guard in front of what was presumably Meredith’s office. Isabela recognized him as Knight-Captain Cullen; she had never met him formally, but she knew he had proven mildly competent… for a templar. That said, she was in no mood to deal with anyone in the Order, a mood that only grew more volatile the moment Cullen opened his mouth.

“Champion,” he said by way of greeting. “You may see the Knight-Commander, but I must ask that you do so alone.” He stared pointedly at Isabela as he spoke that last word. She stared back, fingers twitching, ready to wring his pretty little neck. Cullen would find abominations far preferable to deal with if he insisted on keeping her out of Meredith’s office. 

“Isabela comes with me,” Hawke insisted. “I’m not arguing about this.”

Cullen lowered his voice. “The Knight-Commander has been particularly… careful these days,” he said, and Isabela thought that an odd euphemism for “insane.” “She will not view strangers kindly,” he continued, casting a wary eye at the door.

Isabela leaned close to him, watched how his right hand shifted ever so slightly toward the pommel of his sword. “I promise I’ll be good,” she said, a spoonful of poison coated in sugar. “You don’t want me out here. I could get into trouble.”

“I believe you will find any trouble here is dealt with swiftly and thoroughly,” he countered.

“Of course it is. Because you’re a good little guard dog, aren’t you? Growling at those scary mage children you keep in chains. Tell me, Cullen," she purred, close enough to smell the lyrium on his breath, "how do you like the taste of Meredith’s boots?”

Anger flashed hot in Cullen's eyes, and she smiled. There was no title shackling her words; she would say what Hawke could not.

Stepping back from Isabela and away from the door, Cullen rested his hand on his sword, no longer bothering to hide his annoyance. “Fine. Go in. But Hawke, I suggest you keep your _friend_ restrained. She clearly has no talent for diplomacy.”

Hawke’s expression was a mix of amusement, admiration, and exasperation. “Please behave yourself, dear,” she said, and Isabela batted her eyelashes and nodded.

Despite Cullen’s thinly-veiled threats, Meredith spared Isabela no more than the briefest of glances. Her attention was fully on Hawke, so Isabela stayed at the back of the room and kept a watchful eye on the proceedings. Meredith’s posture was peculiar—the sort of a woman pulled in two different directions. One moment, she was a well-disciplined, experienced templar commander, straight-backed and even-keeled, her tone demanding respect. And in the next, she was a sham ruler gripped by madness, eyes flickering to each corner of the room, seeing ghosts and demons in every shadow. Her body would angle away from Hawke, her hands switching from the back of her chair to brushing against the dagger at her belt, and her orders fluctuated in volume and pitch, as unstable as the rest of her behavior. This was a dangerous one, and Isabela prayed Hawke could see it.

As unsettling as Meredith was, she did not compare to the other woman next to her, so silent and motionless it was as though another Imperium statue had made its home right next to the Knight-Commander’s desk. Curious that the only person Meredith trusted to be in the same room with her was Tranquil. It made sense, though. Pesky things, emotions. Their presence made for bad servants. And what better reminder of one’s power than the personification of the height of templar cruelty? Isabela could feel the Tranquil woman staring at her, but found her dead eyes too uncomfortable to meet.

Whether reinforced by Isabela’s presence, her own frayed nerves, or something else, Hawke was proving resistant to Meredith’s orders to hunt down escaped mages.

“Is there a reason you can’t send your templars to do this? Isn’t that part of their job description?” Hawke asked, a question both flippant and charged.

Meredith was prepared. “These apostates are being aided by common folk. And those people trust you, Hawke. They will give you crucial details they would not see fit to give a templar. Likewise, given your… views, the apostates will be far more cooperative for you than they would be for anyone in the Order.”

Hawke was not convinced. “And have these people done anything beyond escaping from your prison?” 

“You know as well as anyone what apostates are capable of. Or have you forgotten how your mother died?”

In the span of a dozen rapid heartbeats, Isabela imagined just as many ways she could end the Knight-Commander’s life.

There was no yelling, no clenched fists, no indication of the rage Meredith’s impudence surely must have provoked in Hawke. Instead, Hawke grew so still, so quiet, she made the Tranquil look lively. 

“Never speak of my family again,” Hawke said, each word a measured cut, delivered with the cold clarity of a woman who had suffered far more than any one person should be able to bear.

There was the briefest glint of fear in Meredith’s eyes, and that fear colored her voice, lending it a shrillness her mocking words before had lacked. “If you do not find the apostates, my templars will. By any means necessary,” she asserted, and it did not take much to grasp the implications. “If you are truly a champion in more than just name, prove it. Prove you have Kirkwall’s best interests at heart.”

Hawke spun on her heel and left the office, Isabela following close behind, fighting every murderous instinct screaming through her head, her hands, her heart. They were silent as they passed Cullen, silent as they descended through the cell blocks, silent as the prisoners wailed around them, their pleas filling up every inch of the fortress and every inch of Isabela’s skull. 

It wasn’t until they made it past the courtyard and to the docks that Hawke allowed her mask to fall, and she collapsed into Isabela’s arms, sobbing.


	26. Act 3, Part 6: "The Shade"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metric: "The Shade"  
>  _With eternal love, the stars above_  
>  _All there is and ever was_  
>  _I want it all, I want it all_  
>  _A blade of grass, a grain of sand_  
>  _The moonlit sea, to hold your hand_  
>  _I want it all, I want it all_

Was it possible to predict the moment an entire city would collapse? When the pressure became too much to bear and the populace boiled over into the streets, leaving their humanity behind? Isabela had a nose for trouble, but her ability to sniff out an irreparable situation typical led to a hasty retreat long before the final curtain fell. This time, however, she was skirting closer to cataclysm than ever before. Kirkwall was a powderkeg, and its fuse had only grown shorter in the five months since her return. Clashes between mages and templars occurred on a near-daily basis, the streets running red with their blood. And bystanders were not immune to the conflict—some chose to shelter apostates fleeing from the Gallows, others became informants for the templars pursuing them. Ambivalence was no longer an option; everyone took a side. As Meredith’s stranglehold on the city grew more tenuous, her behavior became more erratic, more extreme, and there were whispers she would soon invoke the Rite of Annulment. 

Ordinarily, Isabela would blame the hurricane. But this felt so much larger than her, so much larger than what one spirit, no matter how powerful, could accomplish. No, there was something deeply wrong with the city itself, she decided. From the very ground it was built on—it felt cursed.

The city of Kirkwall held its breath as it teetered on the edge of apocalypse, and Isabela watched and waited for the inevitable spark to blow the whole thing sky-high. And she stayed, despite her every instinct pleading with her to flee, despite her still-unnamed ship floating in the harbor. She stayed, because Hawke needed her.

Their friends had stopped teasing her about when she would run off again. Even Aveline seemed to have accepted Isabela’s change of heart, albeit grudgingly. Isabela spoke to each of them in private about the possibility of escape if and when the situation in Kirkwall became catastrophic. Though some were more enthusiastic about leaving than others (Aveline claimed they would need to drag her unconscious body onto the ship before she would abandon the city), Isabela wanted the option open for all of them. None of her crew would be left behind.

Hawke, of course, was not so easy to convince. Caught in the middle of a war she could not hope to prevent, or even delay, Hawke was steadily wearing down under the heavy mantle of “Champion.” Even her indomitable spirit was growing fragile, and more than once Isabela found Hawke at her desk, crying tears of frustration over a mountain of paperwork. Everyone in the city needed something, apparently, and with the viscount’s seat still vacant and the rest of the governing body in disarray, that burden fell on Hawke’s shoulders. It was inane. Isabela knew Hawke hated it. Hawke was never one for glory or grandeur; she never sought out work for its own sake, but she felt compelled to handle whatever life threw at her, and Kirkwall had no shortage of ammo.

It hurt. It hurt to see Hawke sacrifice so much for a city that gave nothing without taking twice as much in return. Isabela tried her best to help, even when Hawke refused to ask for it, and later, when she finally broke down and did. Isabela would pull a chair up to Hawke’s desk, keeping her company until the candles burned to their bases, making up ridiculous stories about the letter writers and telling stupid jokes—anything to put a smile on Hawke’s face. Every time Hawke met with the Knight-Commander or the First Enchanter, Isabela was her shadow. And still, it didn’t feel like enough. The woman Isabela had fallen for, the one with the lopsided grin and devil-may-care attitude, was being chipped away, bit by bit.

There came a knock at her door. She knew it was Hawke before she opened it. They had spent more time at the Hanged Man lately than anywhere else. It felt like the only place in Kirkwall where Hawke could just be... Hawke. Even the Amell estate was becoming “the Champion’s home,” the stacks of paperwork and frequent dignitary visits too much a reminder of Hawke’s unwanted responsibilities. And with Bodahn and Sandal leaving for greener, less ominous pastures, the estate felt emptier than ever before. So Hawke would bring Brutus, Isabela would convince Norah to throw a kettle on the fire for tea, and they would all pretend the world wasn’t collapsing around them for a few hours. 

“Hello, gorgeous,” Isabela said, pulling Hawke in for a kiss. Something bumped her leg. “Yes, Brutus, you’re gorgeous, too,” she added, dropping a hand from Hawke’s waist to scratch the mabari behind the ears. He seemed pleased with the compliment, giving her hand a lick before trotting over to his usual spot next to the bed.

“He’s such a drama queen,” Hawke muttered, shutting the door behind her. 

“How are you?”

“I’m fi—” Hawke stopped herself when she saw Isabela’s scowl. “Sorry, force of habit. I’m…” She paused to consider it, as if her own mental state was an enigma. After a few seconds of contemplation, she finally settled on, “I’m tired.”

She looked it. Isabela hadn’t seen Hawke so weary since… likely since Leandra died, she thought. There was a dullness to her eyes and a slowness to her step that didn’t used to be there, like the fate of the entire city hung over her in a toxic cloud. And when Hawke pulled a stack of parchment from her bag, it didn’t take much to figure out what it was.

Isabela sighed and took the letters from Hawke’s hands, setting them on the table. “I’m sure the world will continue to spin if you spend a few hours away from paperwork, Hawke.”

“There’s one from Meredith in there that I really should get to, at least,” Hawke said, reaching for the papers, but Isabela stopped her with a hand on her forearm.

“Have you ever considered telling Meredith to get bent? And then running away with a beautiful pirate captain to wild and exotic foreign lands? I’d highly recommend it.”

Isabela pushed Hawke forward until she was half-sitting, half-leaning on the table, easing Hawke’s legs apart until she could get her hips between them. She brought their lips together, and there was a hungriness to Hawke’s mouth, a desperation to forget about everything falling apart outside their room. Hoping her body could grant some measure of relief, Isabela fed into it until Hawke was melting under her touch.

“Let me take care of you,” Isabela murmured against the curve of Hawke’s jaw.

“I can’t say no to that,” Hawke said softly, letting a fraction of her tension dissolve as Isabela’s lips traced a line down her neck. 

“No, you absolutely can’t.” With some reluctance, Isabela leaned back, resting her hands on Hawke’s thighs. “Now excuse me, but I need to tell your dog to leave.”

She turned to see Brutus with his head on his paws, doing his best to make her feel guilty. 

“Brutus,” Isabela said, ignoring the soul-crushing sadness in his eyes, “please go pester Varric for a while, would you?” 

He grumbled at her, but made no move to leave.

“Don’t pout; we won’t be all day this time.” She still felt bad about last week, when a quick tryst ended up taking the better part of an afternoon and an evening. Poor Brutus, bored and betrayed, started pawing at the door and barking when he couldn’t stand waiting anymore. Isabela and Hawke spent an inordinate amount of time apologizing to him afterward, and he still wouldn’t look at them for the next two days. 

Brutus apparently hadn’t forgotten it either, giving her an indignant bark. 

“No, you can’t stay.” Isabela turned back to Hawke, helpless in the face of such canine obstinance. “Hawke, I think your dog is a pervert.”

Hawke smirked. “Well, that makes three of us.” She surreptitiously grabbed a handful of Isabela’s ass before walking over to Brutus, who had since rolled over onto his back, attempting to manipulate with cuteness instead of spite. “You heard the lady. Go on.”

Rising to his feet with a long-suffering sigh, Brutus lumbered to the door Hawke held open for him and out into the hall.

“We’re so terrible to him,” Hawke said, closing the door once more.

“We really are.”

As they stood at opposite ends of the room in a comfortable silence, Isabela realized just how long it had been since she first met Hawke in the bar downstairs. Six years. It was curious, the passing of time. Isabela had never paid any mind to it before, living outside the past and future, outside any place of reflection. It was easier to avoid that sort of contemplation when she was alone. But she wasn’t alone anymore. At some point in the last six years, Hawke had entangled herself in Isabela’s life until they were like the roots of two trees, and Isabela could no longer determine where she ended and Hawke began.

She took in the woman in front of her: the lavender bruises under her eyes, the quiet, exhausted smile curving the corners of her lips, the way, despite her weariness, she could never stand still. How she looked at Isabela like she was the only good thing left in the world. And Isabela remembered when Aveline asked her if she knew what love was. How the poets said it was pain shared, how Isabela said it was pain multiplied. They were both right. To see Hawke struggling was exquisitely painful, there was no denying it. To care was painful. But Isabela found, to her unending surprise, that she was willing to do anything to take some of Hawke’s stress from her, even if doing so increased her own suffering. She wasn’t sure how she could help, but there was no force in the cosmos strong enough to stop her from trying.

“What are you thinking?” Hawke asked.

“That you should strip and get on the bed.” A little crude for what she was planning, perhaps, and she didn’t miss Hawke’s eyebrow raise, but Hawke followed orders, slipping off her clothes into a neat pile on the floor and climbing into Isabela’s bed.

“I might fall asleep; I’ll warn you now.” Hawke looked like she was halfway there already, her eyelids fluttering shut for one second, then two, then three.

Isabela settled in beside her and remained sitting, a difficult feat given how tempting a nap was looking at the moment. “Roll over,” she requested, and when Hawke complied, easing onto her stomach, Isabela straddled her lower back. “If you need to sleep, that’s fine. I just…” Words failed her, a not uncommon occurrence when it came to Hawke. So she let her hands do the talking instead, massaging her thumbs into the knots woven into Hawke’s muscles, starting from the base of her neck and working her way down, unable to resist adding a few kisses to the spots her hands left behind.

Words apparently failed Hawke, too, as all she could manage was a pleased-sounding grunt into the pillow. Isabela smiled and kept going, using the heels of her palms across Hawke’s shoulders, then her fingertips along the backs of Hawke’s arms—left arm first, then right. Her thumbs, then her lips, trailed down the valley in the center of Hawke’s back, floating across each peak of her spine. Shifting so she rested on Hawke’s legs, she leaned in to apply more pressure to the muscles lining either side of Hawke's spine and lower back, each pass releasing a little more tension, until Hawke was clay in her hands. Though she knew it was long past hurting, Isabela softened her touch along the massive scar arcing over the left side of Hawke’s back. It wasn’t so hard to look at anymore, thankfully. It was still a reminder of a moment she would prefer to forget, still the remains of a terrible sacrifice, but—as Hawke so often reminded her—one worth making, and, with time, Isabela had come to believe she was worthy of it.

She spent far too long on Hawke’s backside. “What? I love your ass,” she countered when Hawke snickered. “It can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Pirates, booty. You know.”

Scooting backward until she was kneeling between Hawke’s ankles, she let her hands drift to Hawke’s left thigh, applying deep, even pressure until she reached the back of Hawke’s knee, then back up, and up, close enough to drive some tension back in, but not enough to truly count as a tease. She wasn’t ready to offer the suggestion of anything sexual, not yet. And even if it didn’t lead there at all, that was fine. Another difference in the last six years.

A repeat performance on the right thigh, then to Hawke’s calves, with a kiss for each, and then Isabela was off the bed completely, standing at Hawke’s feet. Isabela stretched her fingers; they ached something fierce, but it was worth it to see Hawke so completely relaxed, her body limp against the mattress.

“Did you pass out on me?” Isabela asked quietly, hoping to not wake Hawke if she had fallen asleep.

“Not quite,” came a muffled reply from near the headboard. 

“Good, then turn back over. I’m not done with you yet.”

With no small amount of effort, Hawke rolled onto her back, her eyes half-lidded, a sleepy smile on her face. Climbing back on top of her, Isabela brushed Hawke’s hair away to kiss her forehead, then gently pressed her lips to Hawke’s closed eyelids, then her nose, before finally bringing their mouths together, all languid softness, like this moment was the only moment that had ever existed, like this room, this bed, was the only place in the universe that mattered.

Isabela pulled away and sat up, Hawke’s waist between her thighs. She wanted to hold onto this feeling, this perfect picture of the woman underneath her, despite all the other forces in their lives conspiring to take it from them. Maybe they could pretend the world outside wasn’t ending for a little while longer.

Hawke noticed her pensiveness. “What is it?” she asked, linking their fingers together, stroking her thumb over the ring Isabela always wore on her first finger.

Despite herself, Isabela felt the words coming out on their own accord. “Nothing. You’re just beautiful. And I… completely adore you.” Maker take her, she was _blushing_ like a fucking Chantry sister.

“Do you?” Hawke teased, but there was a note of earnest surprise barely hidden beneath.

“Yes, I do.” And she wasn’t sure when it had happened in the space between 9:31 and 9:37 Dragon, but it had, and she was wholly taken by it, by her. “Now, please let me kiss you again before I say anything else idiotic.”

Though Hawke surely would have loved to hear more idiocies, she acquiesced, capturing Isabela’s lips with her own, a little harder, a little more urgent, and Isabela could feel Hawke’s smile.

Isabela repeated her earlier journey across Hawke’s body, though she traded her hands for her mouth this time; a kiss for the hollow of Hawke’s throat, the insides of her elbows, each knuckle of her hands, her palms. Then lower, down the middle of her chest, to the right, following the scar’s trail down, one more kiss for her navel, and one for Isabela’s favorite mole, the one just beside Hawke’s right hip bone. Where Isabela’s mouth left, her fingertips followed—no pressure, no insistence, only soft, deliberate caresses on paths she had explored so many times before. There was comfort in following every line and landmark on Hawke’s body she had memorized, each like a word from a well-worn book.

A kiss for the crease where Hawke’s leg joined her torso, another for the outside curve of her thigh. One for the faint white scar on her knee, two for the divots in her shin. Isabela worked her way back up the other leg, pausing when she reached the inside of Hawke’s left thigh. She remembered the first time she was here, the nervousness fueled by expectations and unfamiliarity. There was none of that now, as her eyes met Hawke’s with a silent request. Hawke granted it, letting her legs drift apart, and Isabela had a few more places for her mouth to worship.

She was beautiful. Every gasp and quiet moan, every flex of her muscles, the undulations of her hips. The way her hands always wound up tangled in Isabela’s hair. How her leg would quiver when she was close to the edge, her breathing turning ragged and uneven, like she didn’t know whether to hold her breath or not. And Maker, Isabela’s name had never sounded quite so lovely as it did falling from Hawke’s mouth while she was being pleasured.

And Hawke was saying it now, over and over, before it became indecipherable and muffled, and Isabela opened her eyes to see that Hawke had her hand clamped over her mouth. Isabela was grateful then that her own mouth was otherwise occupied, because she was in danger of having more foolishness slip from it. How amazing and ridiculous that one person could obliterate everything she thought she knew.

Hawke’s back arched and her hips raised off the bed, supported by her leg draped over Isabela’s shoulder. Her moans grew more guttural, more inarticulate, and her hold in Isabela’s hair bordered on painful, but Isabela didn’t mind, only increased the speed and pressure of her tongue, pushing Hawke past the point of no return. And then once more, when Hawke’s shudders began to subside and Isabela sensed there was still a sliver of life left in her, until Hawke was laughing and squirming away from Isabela’s mouth, limbs trembling, oversensitized and blissfully worn out. Maybe that was three, Isabela thought. It was hard to tell.

Crawling partway up Hawke’s body, Isabela sprawled over her, her head resting on Hawke’s lower abdomen, listening to her try to catch her breath while she waited for her own to steady.

“Well, I believe I am well and truly relaxed now,” Hawke said. “I can’t feel my legs.” She chuckled, then sighed. “You’re incredible.”

“I know.”

“And so humble!”

“Oh yes, the most humble woman in Thedas, haven't you heard?” Isabela stifled a yawn. It was tempting to fall asleep like this, even with her legs half-dangling off the end of the bed. “My fiendish plan worked. You can’t possibly answer any letters now.” 

Isabela brought her knees closer to her chest, Hawke’s leg still thrown over her. So many things had changed. What used to bring her joy? Fist fights, drunken flings, stealing. Burning the candle at both ends. And maybe those things were still enjoyable, but there was something special about this that wasn’t comparable. Hawke’s fingers threaded through her hair, the rest of the world seemed a million miles away, and Isabela felt herself beginning to doze off.

“Where would we go?” Hawke’s voice jolted her out of her reverie.

“Hmm?” 

“You said I should run away with you to ‘wild and exotic foreign lands.’ Assuming _you’re_ the beautiful pirate captain, of course.”

Rolling over onto her stomach, Isabela placed her palms over Hawke’s navel and rested her chin atop them. “Have you _seen_ other pirate captains? Most of them don’t qualify as beautiful. Not remotely. But yes, you should run away with me. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll take you.”

Hawke paused to consider it. “Do you have a map?”

“I do. Several. But you’re really asking me to get out of bed?” Isabela pouted. “After all those orgasms I gave you?”

“Well, I don’t think I can walk after all those orgasms, so that limits our options, doesn’t it?” Hawke smirked and tapped Isabela on the nose. “Besides, we can’t forget about Brutus again. He guilt-trips me better than my mother ever did.”

“Ugh, fine,” Isabela grumbled, sliding backwards until her feet touched the floor and pushing herself upright. “But only because I like you.”

“I like you, too.”

Hawke’s grin was entirely too broad and Isabela’s heart was beating entirely too fast for such an innocent statement. She shook her head and went to fetch Brutus.

Brutus came bounding in moments after she opened the door, a bone in his mouth, and where he got it or from what creature it originally belonged to Isabela did not want to know. He settled back down on the rug, apparently not too heartbroken over being shut out, while Isabela rummaged through the trunk next to her bed, emerging with an armful of maps.

Scooting up so her back was against the headboard, Hawke picked up a map and unrolled it against the mattress at her feet. Isabela helped hold it open, and Hawke traced her fingertip along the coast, from Treviso to Wycome to Ostwick, before landing on Kirkwall.

“So, we could go west to Orlais, or south to Ferelden, or east, then north to Antiva and Rivain,” Hawke said, guiding her finger in each of the directions as she spoke them, a tiny boat. “Hmm. I really don’t know. Where would you want to take me?”

“Maybe it’s too predictable, but I would love to take you north. Dice—you remember Dice, right? He sent me a letter a few days ago saying he and his husband’ll be in Antiva City for the next few months. We could meet up with them there… see the palace, walk around the plazas, drink a lot of wine…” Isabela had avoided Antiva City as much as she could since Bones’s death, but if Dice could do it, she could, and certainly if Hawke was by her side—though they’d likely be staying out of any brothels this time around, just to be safe. “Oh, there’s this beautiful walkway down by the water. It’s lined with these round lanterns all down the path. At night, it’s like a string of glowing bubbles as far as you can see.”

“That sounds terribly romantic.” Hawke’s smile and the sparkle in her eyes suggested she was up for some terrible romanticism.

“It’s Antiva. ‘Terribly romantic’ describes the entire country.” It was funny; Isabela turned her nose up at all of that when she was with Aiden. She never did walk that boulevard with him.

Hawke’s finger moved east. “We’d go to Rivain, too, I’m assuming.”

“Of course! Llomerryn first, to ease you into it.”

“You would take me to the lawless pirate island to ‘ease me into’ your homeland?”

“Well, when you put it that way… but yes, I would. There are more southerners there than anywhere else, so the language barrier wouldn’t be much of an issue.” Her imagination, fueled by a desperation to leave Kirkwall, started to take hold. “We could go to _Anahia._ That’s the main market. It’s fun to just stroll through and look at things, though you’d probably want to keep your sword on you. You’ll have to try all the food, obviously. Lots of tea shop visits... Ooh, you could get a tattoo! Let’s see, what else? We could go to the taverns, swap stories with other pirates, have some rum—well, you could have some rum, I don’t drink the stuff anymore. And then, when you’ve had too much of other people, we could walk to the beach and be alone. Just the two of us.” 

She thought of white sands and palm trees and picking up shells washed ashore after high tide. She thought of reading in the morning sunshine and beach bonfires at night and afternoon naps in hammocks. She thought of hurricanes and granite cliffs. Perhaps now her homeland could finally feel like home.

Hawke seemed to have similar ideas. “That sounds amazing,” she said, drawing circles around the island.

“It doesn’t have to be a fantasy. We could do it.”

“I don’t know how I could leave Kirkwall. Not with everything going on lately.”

Isabela laced her fingers with Hawke’s somewhere in the Amaranthine Ocean. “I don’t want to pressure you, but you feel what’s in the air here, don’t you? This isn’t going to get any better.” When Hawke didn’t respond, Isabela continued, needing to erase the concern lining Hawke’s face. “I’ve talked to everyone about it. They’re ready to leave when you are.”

Hawke’s eyebrows tilted up in surprise. “They are?”

“Well, we’ll probably have to club Aveline over the head,” Isabela mused, and that got her a small burst of laughter out of Hawke, thank goodness. “But they are ready, I promise. You say the word and we’re off.”

“I…” Hawke chewed on a corner of her lip.

Bless her, she was stubborn. Reaching a hand up, Isabela cupped Hawke’s cheek. “This city's already taken so much. Don’t let it take you, too.” 

Kirkwall didn’t deserve Hawke. It never did. And Isabela would be damned if she let Hawke kill herself over it. When Hawke insisted on staring at the map, Isabela gently tilted Hawke’s head, forcing their eyes to meet, and the worry, the sheer exhaustion she saw there was heartbreaking. She had to convince her.

“Hawke. You saved me. Let me return the favor. Please.”

Something seemed to break in Hawke then, a breach in her fortress walls, and she closed her eyes and sighed. “How soon could we leave, if it came down to it?”

“I’ve kept the ship seaworthy and stocked while she’s been in port. A skeleton crew of twenty-five men could see her out of Kirkwall. Give me two days and some gold and I’ll round them up, no problem.” There were plenty of good sailors clogging up the docks, dying for a reason to get out of the city.

“Two days?” That seemed to settle Hawke’s nerves. “Dammit, you’re making a convincing argument,” she admitted, and allowed a tiny smile to grace her face. “I know I can’t do anything for Kirkwall anymore. It’s a mess too big for one person to fix. I’ve just… I’ve never been very good at letting things go.”

“I know,” Isabela said, giving a smile of her own as Hawke’s turned sheepish. “And it’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you. I swear, you try and you try, even when the world is determined to keep knocking you down. But sometimes I think knowing when to cut your losses is the strongest thing you can do. There’s no need to feel guilty about it. It’s your choice. Trust me,” she insisted with a self-deprecating laugh, leaning over the map to press her lips to Hawke’s. “I’m an expert at knowing when to run away.”

“What would I ever do without you?”

More romantic idiocies filled Isabela’s mind, flooding straight to her mouth, but it was far too late to stop them. She was no longer in Kirkwall. She was miles and miles away, the sand between her toes, this beautiful, tenacious woman in her arms.

“You’ll never have to find out. You’re stuck with me now.”


	27. Post-DA2, Part 1: "Run Away"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sarah Jarosz: "Run Away"  
>  _I buried my heart in a willow tree_  
>  _You came along, gave it back to me_  
>  _Now we're creatures of the night_  
>  _We set each other free_  
>  _Run away with me_
> 
> Alters the canon ending.

_(Isabela’s logbook looks recently purchased: bound in shiny dark-brown leather, only a few of the pages are filled out. A rose has been painstakingly burned into the front cover. Her handwriting appears more freeform than in years past, turning into something unique, less stifled by penmanship lessons)_

  


##### 9:37 Dragon, 12 Harvestmere

The chantry blowing up sure was quite the sight, wasn’t it? Very pretty, in a completely heinous, mass-murdering sort of way.

But I suppose I should back up and explain.

But first... I have a captain’s log again! Obviously, seeing as I am writing in it. After officially reclaiming my title of captain, it felt appropriate. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Anders ruining everything.

At least he had the decency to warn me before it happened. Well, less a warning and more a suggestion that we really ought to have the ship ready just in case something terrible were to happen in approximately the next, oh... two days. I passed the word on to Hawke, and thank Andraste (though I imagine she’s none too interested in being thanked at the moment) she listened to me and agreed to shove off. Still, I swear we were dodging flaming bits of holy bricks all the way to the docks. Probably flaming bits of Grand Cleric Elthina, too. Ick.

That was two days ago. You could see the smoke from Ferelden.

I’m sure you’re wondering if I’m upset about any of this.

Regardless of how I “feel” about it, you have to admit it took balls to do something like that. Whether those balls belonged to Anders or Justice is another matter. I can see why he felt there was no other option. Sometimes, when you’re backed into a corner, the only thing you can do is blow shit up. Literally, in this case.

And it worked. Maybe. When we dropped Aveline and Donnic off near Highever, word had already spread that the Gallows collapsed. Mages and templars fighting in the streets. Abominations everywhere. And of course, your garden variety riots and looting. The guard will have their hands full. Aveline wanted off the ship as soon as we were out of port. She and Donnic will take the next boat back to Kirkwall. Stubborn ass. I hope she’s okay.

Was it right? I don’t know if I’m the person to ask. I have no stake in it, after all. Will it grant justice to mages? No, I don’t think so. I’m guessing this will get a whole lot worse before it gets any better. If it gets any better. Anders might be of a similar opinion. He’s done his best to isolate himself from the rest of us, not the easiest task on a ship. He spends most of his time abovedecks, looking like he wants to throw himself into the sea. Once we get out of the Free Marches, he plans on going into hiding. Probably the safest plan... as long as Fenris doesn’t kill him first.

The others are less certain of their destinations. Merrill and Varric both have ties to Kirkwall and will likely want to disembark sooner rather than later. Kitten will want to take care of the alienage, and Varric has an unhealthy attachment to that city for whatever Maker-forsaken reason. It’s too bad. I’d like to keep them along, but their lives are their own. And they’re both still looking a little green around the gills, to be honest. Sailing’s not for everyone.

Fenris, on the other hand, is coping surprisingly well. 

_(A small sketch of a frowning elf with messy hair)_

Or maybe he’s just better at hiding his puking. I asked him where he wanted to go, and he said he didn’t know. I worry about him. He’s a free man now. The world is his oyster. I remember some of the choices I made after Luis—all I can hope is for him to have better sense than I did. But I told him he’s welcome to stay on with us as long as he wants. He waved it off, but he always gets this little smile when he’s happy.

And I can’t forget my darling Bethany, can I? She claimed to be in Kirkwall on “Warden business,” but it was awfully convenient timing. I imagine it was less about the Wardens and more about keeping an eye on her sister. Their relationship still feels a bit awkward. A little closed-off. I’ve never had a sister, though, so maybe that’s just how it goes. 

_(A note scribbled sideways in the margin: “Ask Bethany if she wants to be my sister”)_

Joining the Wardens has changed her. That much is obvious. There’s an edge to her now that wasn’t there before, and she’s apparently taken a page from the Hawke family book on bottling one’s emotions. She’s not as good at it as Hawke is, though. She cried yesterday when I thanked her for taking care of Hawke after the Arishok duel (yes, I apologized for leaving; you don’t have to ask). Granted, I was crying, too. Then I told her we could stop by the Pearl in Denerim, because that’s where Grey Wardens like to go to master their taints. That finally got a giggle out of her. Oh, Bethany. I missed her.

And then… there’s Hawke.

Hawke, you better not be reading this. Go away.

Are you gone now? Okay...

I am completely and utterly _(the words here are indecipherable, crossed out beyond recognition)_ smitten. It is ridiculous. It is wonderful. I can’t say it, but you know what I mean, don’t you? I swear, I look at her on the surface deck, leaning over the railing, staring out to the horizon, and I feel things I never thought I could feel for another person. I hope she knows it.

The first day and night at sea were dicey, but she’s getting her sea legs. The small crew size has required me to lean on everyone hard to keep this rig moving, including her. We sailed straight through the night after the explosion. Not a big deal with a full-size crew. A bit more of a deal when your crew isn’t large enough to take shifts. Now that we’re out of immediate danger, we can slow it down. I had the anchor dropped last night, and I’ll likely keep it that way until we can pick up a few more jacks at the next stop. They’re good men, especially given how short a notice I had to hire them, and I’m not about to run them ragged. Hawke seems to have settled in with them well enough. And they know not to mess with the captain’s woman, particularly one who can pull her own weight aboard.

“The captain’s woman.” Look at me. Unbelievable.

I’ve always thought sailing offered the ultimate freedom. And now I’m able to see the truth of it. Every hour Hawke is away from Kirkwall, it’s like a little more weight is lifted from her shoulders. She is alive again.

She's been charting our course on my maps, badgering the helmsman, learning the stars for navigation. I knew she had it in her. I can see that spark in her eyes, that wanderlust. She wants to see the world, and I want to show it to her.

Fuck me, I've really got it bad, don't I? 

Well, maybe I do, but I don’t care. I can look over right now and see her sleeping in my bed, and there’s the sea through the stern windows, and I still can’t believe it’s real. She’s real, and she’s mine. I’m not going to squander this chance I’ve been given.

Oh. I think I know what to name the ship.

All right, sleep is finally coming back to me. Sure took its sweet time. We continue east tomorrow. Goodnight.

_(A small heart is drawn in the lower-right corner)_  


  


##### 9:37 Dragon, 14 Harvestmere

_(A sketch of a large stone archway with two watchtowers on either side)_

We arrived in Amaranthine this afternoon. Bethany, unfortunately, had to disembark. This is my first time seeing a place affected by the Blight. I was technically in Denerim while it was happening, but the darkspawn hadn’t reached that far north yet, and I made sure to be well back in Antiva by the time they did. You hear all this talk when you’re up north about how the Fifth Blight wasn’t a real Blight, how could it only last one year, it was all a ploy by the Fereldans… Look, it’s not like I believed any of that, but it does make one underestimate the damage done. Standing here, I understand. There is still something very wrong in the air, despite all the rebuilding they’ve managed in the last six years. Bethany told me it’s like that all over Ferelden, or worse, like in Lothering. Nothing left, just a wasteland.

We had a long talk last night, her and I. She has trouble sleeping, too, so we both sat on the deck for a few hours under the stars. They are something else, those Hawke sisters. Bethany’s not an innocent girl anymore. I don’t think her light’s been dimmed, just… focused. Like how you can put a circle of glass in the sun and burn a hole in the ground. 

I’ve always been able to spot a Warden in a crowd. They have a certain weight to their step and a hollowness in their eyes. Bethany said that’s the taint. She said she’s gotten better at ignoring it, but when she stops for too long, she can feel it; the only way she could describe it was “something in my veins that is not mine.” So she keeps moving. It’s funny, Hawke told me the same thing. That if she stands still, dark thoughts start creeping up on her. I wonder if the rest of their family shared that trait?

It wasn’t all doom and gloom. She’s made friends in the Wardens and developed a delightfully morbid sense of humor because of it (“Something about slowly going mad from darkspawn blood brings people together like nothing else”). She even made a vulgar joke about one of the Wardens spelunking in her Deep Roads. I was so proud. "You find comfort where you can." Sounds familiar.

We talked about Hawke. Of course we talked about Hawke. They’ve worked out whatever was off between them. Bethany knows Hawke did the only thing she could. I’m glad. I’d hate to think there’d be animosity between them so many years later, with all they’ve been through. And Andraste’s luscious arse did her face ever light up when she asked what was going on with Hawke and me. “I knew it,” she said, “I knew it as soon as you asked me to pick out an outfit for that ball.” I asked if she approved. She said she did, as long as I was serious about it. And then she asked me how I felt about Hawke. And… Maker help me, I told her. I said it. I can’t even write it ~~(sober, anyway)~~ , but I told Bethany. I had to tackle her to keep her from waking the whole bloody ship with her shrieking.

I made her swear not to tell Hawke.

I also gave her the address for an inn in Llomerryn to send letters to. Which implies some sort of permanence in our location, I suppose. That should feel scary, shouldn’t it? 

It doesn’t.

We make for Ostwick in the morning. I think Varric and Merrill will be leaving us there. After needing them to help furl the sails as we approached port today, I can’t imagine they want to stay on this ship any second longer than they have to. Who knew Varric was so afraid of heights? He was shaking like a leaf when he crawled back down the footrope after the first one, despite his arguments that he could “handle it,” so I let him “supervise” while we brailed up the rest. I hired another two dozen hands in the city; Varric and the rest of the landlubbers can sit pretty for the remainder of their journey. It’s still not a full crew, but it’ll get us to where we’re going.

I’ve paid for rooms tonight. I figure the men deserve a break from being crammed into berths and only eating food that comes out of a barrel. But it’s not just out of the goodness of my heart. I’m buying their silence. Anders may have been the one to blow up the chantry, but Hawke—or rather, “Kirkwall’s Champion,” I suppose—is the face of revolution. Not that she ever publicly expressed any ideas more radical than, say, “Perhaps mages shouldn’t be treated like monsters all the time.” That doesn’t matter. What matters is her association with Anders and her “sympathetic views.” Even here in Amaranthine, the rumor mill is quite productive.

“Did you hear the Champion summoned a demon and then tore the Knight-Commander apart with her bare hands?” “I heard she turned the Knight-Commander’s body into a bomb and that’s how she blew up the chantry.” Hawke was right beside me at the bar listening to that bullshit. I don’t know how she kept a straight face. She’s handling being a fugitive with remarkably good humor. Then again... that’s how she handles everything.

Varric was taking notes the whole time. I have a feeling his next book is going to be his most popular yet. He won’t tell me if I’m in it. I better be. Everyone likes a powerful couple, don’t they? “The Champion of Kirkwall and the Queen of the Eastern Seas” sounds good. ~~Maybe flip the order around.~~

The Fereldans might not know who she is, but the crew does, or at least the Kirkwallers do, and they’ll have told everyone else, because sailors love gossip. They might even know who Anders is. My hope is that treating them well and keeping my daggers on display will dissuade anyone from squealing. Still, I’m asking Dice and his men to take us to Llomerryn, just to cover our tracks.

Brutus just stuck his head on my lap and knocked my arm away from the book. That apparently means it’s time to sleep. Sometimes we let him on the bed. Spoiled brat. He’s a good cuddler when he isn’t taking up the whole damn mattress.

What have I become?  


  


##### 9:37 Dragon, 15 Harvestmere

_(the writing on this page is rushed and sloppy)_

Ostwick is an ugly city. 

Maybe I’m just tired of the south. 

Not much to report. Merrill and Varric were safely delivered to port. They’ll stay in Ostwick a few days then start the trip back to Kirkwall. You couldn’t pay me to go back there, but they have more ties there than I ever did. Well, my ties are on this ship with me. They promised to visit. They better.

I am a little sad. I thought I was over my regret of leaving Kirkwall for three years, but here I am, wishing for that time back to spend with everyone when I had the chance. I don’t know why I thought I could just put everyone on my ship and take them to Llomerryn and have everything be like it was before. People have their own priorities and causes, and apparently that overrides friendship.

No, I shouldn't say that. It's not fair. I know.

Everyone goes their separate ways. That’s normal. We’ll meet up again at some point. 

I’m going to keep telling myself that.

Anders and Fenris are still here for a few more days until Antiva. After that, it’s a new story for all of us. 

At least I have Hawke.

Spotted an ox-eye in the northern sky. It’s hurricane season in Rivain, which means leftover storms get funnelled from the ocean into the Waking Sea. I’ve warned the crew to prepare for chop. Let’s see how Second Chance handles it. I’m in the mood for some bad weather.  


  


##### 9:37 Dragon, 16 Harvestmere

I expected to feel a little nervous as the skies around us blackened and the waves grew larger. I did not expect to have flashbacks of Siren’s Call. I did not expect to turn into a shaking, sobbing mess when it was all over and we cleared the other side.

We did everything right. Struck all but the topsails, ran ahead, dropped the storm drogue and took the waves on the bow. We were able to get out into enough ocean to avoid a lee shore. And maybe I prayed to the spirit that supposedly takes an interest in me to be merciful.

It’s true, there is nothing else like it. When you’re soaked to the bone, hands slipping on the wheel, feet sliding on the deck, the rope about your waist tied to the mainmast the only thing keeping you from getting swept overboard. When the waves tower in front of you, crashing as they slam into the hull, the wind howling in your ears. When lightning strikes the ocean all around, their flashes your only source of light.

I used to live for storms at sea. I used to live for the risk of dying. But I suppose that’s what you do when you have nothing else to live for.

The ship performed beautifully. The crew did as they were told. And when the sky cleared and I stumbled belowdecks, a shivering drowned rat, Hawke was there waiting for me. I don’t know what was harder to take—the memories of Siren’s Call’s mast snapping like a twig as she capsized or the look on Hawke’s face when she saw me.

I scared her. My stupid recklessness.

I could’ve just stayed in port another day or two. But I wasn’t thinking. I was acting like the old me, chasing danger, not caring about anyone else. I can’t do that anymore. 

She didn’t lecture me or get upset. All she did was help dry me off, and then she held me while I cried. Sometimes I think I don’t deserve her.

There’s probably an important lesson in here somewhere, but I’m too fucking tired to find it right now. Let’s hope tomorrow is a better day.  


  


##### 9:37 Dragon, 19 Harvestmere

  


# I

# Am

#  Happy  



	28. Post-DA2, Part 2: "Please Don't Say You Love Me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gabrielle Aplin: "Please Don't Say You Love Me"  
>  _Just please don’t say you love me_  
>  _Cuz I might not say it back_  
>  _Doesn’t mean my heart stops skipping_  
>  _When you look at me like that_  
>  _There’s no need to worry_  
>  _When you see just where we’re at_  
>  _But please don’t say you love me_  
>  _Cuz I might not say it back_
> 
> Note: This chapter takes place on the 19th day of Harvestmere

She knows Hawke wants to say it.

She can see it in every inhale held half a second too long, in every lingering gaze, in every hesitantly bit lip. She can feel it in every touch, careful and accepting, and every kiss, soft and inviting. She can hear it every time Hawke says her name—that extra space at the end, hanging in the air, waiting to be filled.

Hawke holds back out of respect, or fear of Isabela’s reaction, or—more likely—both. But Isabela knows Hawke, knows her more than she ever thought she could know another person. And she knows the things Hawke feels don’t just evaporate; they’re stored, each and every one, until she overflows. And she knows Hawke must be full to bursting with every time she has had to restrain those three words.

It feels inevitable, but Isabela finds she is no longer dreading the flood once the dam breaks.

They’re still three days out from Antiva City after a brief stop in Wycome to resupply. They were gone within the afternoon; a shame, because Isabela loves Wycome and has no doubt Hawke would, too, but anywhere in the Free Marches still feels too close to Kirkwall, and she worries the shockwaves of destruction will ripple all the way out to the ocean.

Ships are cold at night, especially with the frigid south wind screaming up from the Frostbacks. And there aren’t many ways to alleviate the chill; vessels made of wood and varnish do not lend themselves particularly well to being heated. Fortunately, the temperature is barely noticeable with Hawke curled up next to her, a pile of furs over them both, a cozy cocoon against the world. Hawke is always warm, Isabela has discovered since they started routinely sharing a bed. When she points it out, Hawke laughs and says it comes with being Fereldan.

Hawke’s head is on her chest, and it rises and falls in time with Isabela’s breathing, in time with the tides rocking Second Chance in a gentle lullaby. It’s a temporary position, one they often slip into after sex, when limbs don’t always cooperate and rolling over is too much to ask. Sometimes they even fall asleep that way, but they always end up in the same configuration by morning: on their sides, Isabela’s back pressed to Hawke’s chest, Hawke’s arm thrown around her, bodies curved together. Nighttime restlessness doesn’t strike her as much anymore, but when it does, Hawke lets her go, lets her wander abovedecks until her mind settles. She always comes back.

Lanterns swing from chains overhead, casting flickering shadows to dance over their bodies, a soft glow moving north to south to north again. The hull creaks as it bobs against the waves. It worried Hawke that first night, when the wood around them seemed too frail to hold back the sea, like the planks would shift and cry until they burst apart. So Isabela shared her memories of her first night in blue water, how she was convinced their schooner would be devoured by the ocean. That, strangely, seemed to offer Hawke some comfort, and she was able to sleep eventually. But Hawke is used to it now. She learned the ins and outs of sailing quickly, as Isabela always knew she would.

Hawke tilts her head up and kisses Isabela’s jaw; Isabela responds with a press of her own lips to Hawke’s forehead, right where her hairline hits. They’ve become so commonplace, these silly affections. Isabela never imagined she would ever kiss someone simply for the sake of kissing them, without anticipating something more. Then again, there are many things she never imagined she would do, before Hawke.

She can feel Hawke looking at her, the barest tension beginning to coil in her muscles. Hawke's breathing becomes more deliberate, like she’s trying to settle her nerves. A pause, an inhale, and then Isabela knows. Hawke is going to say it.

“I—”

“Hawke. Wait.” Isabela tries her best to soften her tone, even as Hawke immediately shrinks back. “I know what you want to say. And I won’t stop you from saying it. I just… want you to know that I don’t think I can say it back. Not yet, anyway. So if that’s something that you need, I…” She doesn’t want to say she _can’t_ , because she knows, at some point, the words will stop catching in her throat. “It’s not something I can give you just yet. That’s all.”

Hawke is quiet for so long Isabela wonders if she’s made a terrible mistake, until Hawke slides her hand up Isabela’s wrist, weaves their fingers together, and speaks.

“I’m okay with that. But is it something you want to hear?”

Is it? Isabela thought this moment would require more introspection, more agonizing. But she is a woman who knows what she wants.

“Yes.”

Hawke gets her elbow under her, props herself up so she can look Isabela in the eyes. The lantern sways, and the tips of her hair, the tops of her cheeks, and the slope of her nose flicker with gold and red. Her eyebrows tilt up, and she looks so sweetly serious, as though there’s any way she can possibly mess this up. 

Heart pounding, Isabela waits for it, but Hawke doesn’t speak, not yet. Instead, she leans down to kiss her, achingly tender. And then she pulls back, leaving the smallest of spaces between them, close enough for Isabela to feel the words on her lips as they’re whispered, as though she herself could swallow her fear and say them, too.

“I love you.”

Hawke kisses her again, seals her words between them. “I love you.” Another kiss. “I love you.” Every one she has saved up over the years comes out, and Isabela wonders why she was ever afraid to hear them.

When Hawke finishes, there is no expectation in her eyes, only relief, only love, like she could say it a thousand more times before the night is through, and Isabela thinks she wouldn’t mind if Hawke did just that. She can’t tell her, though—she can’t seem to speak, can’t find words in any language fit to explain how she feels; hopefully her expression can translate enough, a line from her heart to her eyes.

Their sincere moment is broken by Hawke’s burst of laughter, sudden and bright, like blooming flowers. “Oh, I needed that,” she sighs, collapsing into Isabela’s arms, an echo of a scene barely an hour before— though, thinks Isabela with no small amount of mirth, for entirely different reasons.

Isabela eventually remembers how to speak, but all she can manage is “Hawke.” A decade of captaining ships and terrorizing the high seas, yet she has never felt the world at her feet like this. It is a different sort of power. She is enough. She is loved. Not for her body or an image she projects, but for her, entirely. For both her stars and the darkness around them. Hawke knows her down to her bones, with all the broken and ugly bits in between, and chooses to love her anyway. And that is an infinitely greater prize than anything Isabela has ever stolen.

Hawke kisses her cheek, then her ear, that spot where her earring usually sits. And then she says it again, like she just can’t help herself, and Isabela laughs, because she feels so stupidly happy, because Hawke loves her and only her, and that is all that matters.

“I’m going to say it all the time now, so you’ll have to get used to it,” Hawke says.

Isabela hopes she never does.


	29. Post-DA2, Part 3: "Born Again"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiffany Young: "Born Again"  
>  _Never felt this safe in a foreign place_  
>  _I used to feel so hollow, shallow, vacant_  
>  _When you’re around, you’re closing all these spaces_  
>  _Your love is like a higher power_  
>  _I’m born again_
> 
> Content warning for thinly-veiled references to sexual abuse.

“How long has it been since you were here last?”

“This port? Seven years. The city proper?” Isabela did a quick calculation in her head. “Double that.”

Hawke’s eyebrows raised. “Really? Fourteen years? Isn’t this a major port city?”

“It is, but I couldn’t bring myself to come here after Bones died. Rialto? Treviso? No problem. But here?” She looked out to the cliffs, to all those little white-walled houses dotting the hills like flakes of salt. “And it’s never been easy to forget that this was where I lived with Luis. So, lots of bad memories, I guess. But,” she added, threading her fingers with Hawke’s, “we can make some new ones now. Better ones.”

One by one, her fourty-nine crewmen disembarked, their leg of the journey now completed. They would likely secure rooms at the inns littering the docks and wait for another job to come in—they wouldn’t have to wait long in a bustling port like Antiva City’s. Most walked past Isabela with little more than a nod and a “Captain.” Her boatswain, however, a gritty Fereldan named Landon, stopped to shake her hand.

“Pleasure working with you, Cap’n,” he said, then inclined his head in Hawke’s direction. “You as well, Champion. For what it’s worth, I—” he jammed both his hands into his pockets. “I’ve a sister in the Fereldan Circle. You were on the right side of things. Whatever happened to Meredith…” His eyes narrowed. “She deserved it and then some. I’d be more’n happy to work alongside you again if you’re in need of a bos’n.”

He wasn’t too bad a mate, she thought. For a legitimate sailor, anyway. He kept his men in line, which was really all she needed in a man of his position. She thanked him for the offer and sent him on his way.

“See, Hawke,” Isabela teased. “Not everyone hates us.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Oh, what a relief. I can sleep soundly now knowing that one person doesn’t want me dead.” Her tone took on a slightly downcast note. “I look forward to never being called ‘Champion’ again.”

Isabela looked forward to that, too.

Fenris lingered about the deck, only coming to the plank when the crew had completely dispersed. He took in the docks and the city beyond it: the layers of buildings stacked on the cliffs like a tiered cake, the royal castle’s spires peeking out from behind the city’s immense chantry at the top, their terracotta roofs a contrast to the dark rock they were built upon. He watched the sailors leaving for whatever pub was closest and the Antivans milling around the harbor and in and out of alleyways. She could almost see the cogs turning in his head. Tactical positions, potential threats, escape routes. Isabela remembered the first time she noticed him doing it—how oddly comforting it was to know someone else looked at the world through a similar lens.

“Big plans?” she asked him, knowing what the answer would be.

As expected, Fenris shook his head. “Not really. I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Have you considered staying on a ship? You’ve proven a damn good sailor.”

And it wasn’t a deceitful attempt at flattery. Despite his claims that he had never sailed a ship before, only observed the process during his travels with Danarius, Fenris showed exceptional talent for the craft. Every time Isabela called for hands, he was there. Even during the storm between Ostwick and Wycome, he remained calm, refusing to hide belowdecks, braving the torrents right beside her. Any captain would be blessed to have a man like that aboard.

“I doubt I’d make a very competent pirate,” Fenris scoffed.

“You don’t have to be a pirate. You could be a regular, boring sailor on a merchant vessel. Or something else…” She wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue. “ _Legal_. Ugh. I don’t know.” Waving a hand around, she grasped for ideas. “You could… start a band of vigilante raiders that fights slavers. That sounds like more fun.”

“Indeed.” There was a curious twinkle in Fenris’s eyes that betrayed his interest in the suggestion. He turned to address both women, that curiosity now replaced by determination. “Hawke. Isabela. You have been better friends than I ever could have hoped for.”

“Getting sentimental, Fenris?” Hawke asked, but the barest catch in her voice gave her away. “You have the address for the inn in Llomerryn, right? Let us know when you get to wherever you’re going.”

“‘The Full and By,’ yes? I will.”

A lump formed suddenly in Isabela’s throat. Balls. She told herself she wasn’t going to get emotional. “Are you going to let me hug you goodbye or not?” she said, gruffness proving a poor shield for sadness. 

Fenris accepted the embrace and, surprisingly, returned it with equal force, his arms strong as they wrapped around her lower back. They parted, and he repeated the process with Hawke. There were no further words exchanged, merely a nod from each of them, and then Fenris was gone, disappearing into the throngs.

Anders crept out of the berths next, looking every bit like a man preparing to spend the rest of his life on the run. 

“So. This is it,” he said, choosing not to look at either of them.

“Do you have somewhere safe to go?” asked Hawke.

Anders nodded. “I have friends in the area I can stay with. They know I’m here.” He was quiet for a time, staring out to the docks without seeming to register any of it. Eventually, he spoke again, his words weighed down by the blood on his hands: “Did I do the right thing?”

Isabela traded glances with Hawke, at a loss for words. Right and wrong were always such nebulous concepts to her. Even if she hadn’t been raised with a backwards moral compass, when one travels far enough, up becomes down and left becomes right. What seemed an inalienable right in one nation was anathema in the next. She made the choice not to obsess over it long ago. It was a constant point of contention between her and Anders. His world—or Justice’s world—was arranged in alternating patterns of black and white. Neat little boxes for everyone to live in. That was nothing like Isabela’s world. Her world was messier than a whore’s face after a long night.

“I’ve a feeling it will take more time to see how the consequences play out,” Hawke said, and Isabela could tell she was choosing her words carefully. “But whatever ends up happening, it wasn’t going to get any better if you had done nothing. I know that for certain.”

Anders seemed to accept that, his expression moving from pained to resolute. “I’m not sure if I’ll be able to visit, but I’ll try,” he promised.

“You should. Rivain loves rebels and outlaws,” Isabela joked, giving him a hug. She hoped whomever he stayed with fed him properly; the man was scrawny enough to begin with, and their time at sea did him no favors. He felt frail in her arms, and it worried her.

They exchanged goodbyes, Anders making a mighty effort to hide his tears. Almost as strong an effort as Isabela made to hide hers.

And then there were two.

Isabela took her melancholy and shoved it elsewhere. Maybe she had to say farewell to two friends today, but she was saying hello to two more. She chose to focus on that.

“Dice and Miguel are meeting us at the Fisherman’s Plaza,” she told Hawke. “It’s not far from here. Which is good news, given that I can’t remember shit about this city beyond this dock.”

“Should we leave Brutus on the ship?”

“Best thing to do, I think. As lovely as Brutus is, Dice is deathly afraid of dogs. Besides, I need _some_ thing guarding the boat. I’ll be damned if any Antivans want to try stealing it without having their legs ripped off, first.”

\------

Antiva City had more plazas than actual streets, it seemed. They passed at least two on their way to their intended destination. The only way Isabela could determine which was which was by remembering that Fisherman’s Plaza had a ridiculous fountain in the center of it: a massive stone carp leaping from the water, shooting a jet from its mouth into the air.

The plaza would be remarkable in any other country (except, perhaps, Orlais), but in Antiva City, luxury was mundane. The plaza itself was composed of interlocking black and white stone tiles, polished until gleaming, forming a compass circumscribed within the boundaries of the square. The buildings lined around couldn’t have been more exciting than warehouses and fishmongers, maybe a few pubs or cafes, but they were all decadent multi-story affairs with balustraded balconies at every level and enough decorative trim to overwhelm the brick beneath it.

Antivans believed a good first impression was everything, and the architecture of their capital city followed suit. But there was no shortage of darkness hiding under the gold leaf and marble. The intent was to disarm, a smile before a knife between the ribs.

She wondered if Zevran was here.

Hawke interrupted her thoughts. “What does he look like?” she asked as she scanned the crowds scattered about the plaza.

Assuming she meant Dice, Isabela replied, “He’s a six and a half foot-tall Rivaini with a great big beard, a bunch of gold in his face, dreadlocks down to his ass, and a voice you can hear from the other side of the country. He’s a hard man to miss.”

Right on cue, a roar of laughter burst from somewhere near the fountain, followed by its extravagant owner, heedless of the many Antivans stopping in their tracks to stare.

“There she is!” Dice bellowed, stomping over to Isabela and scooping her into a crushing hug. He always wore the same beard oil: vanilla and sandalwood, such a sweet and mellow combination for such a fierce-looking pirate. Even in their years apart, she couldn’t smell either without thinking of him. Fortunately, after their reunion in Rivain, she could once again enjoy the scent of a cake baking without wanting to cry.

“I can’t believe you made me come to _Antiva_ ,” she grumbled, poking him in the chest with a finger. “You’re a traitor to our country.”

“Says the woman in love with a _Fereldan_. That’s even worse,” he whispered, gold-toothed grin quickly taking over his face as she smacked his shoulder. “But where are my manners?” he exclaimed, looking over Isabela’s shoulder at said-Fereldan standing behind her. “Marian Hawke!”

As Dice extended his hand and Hawke took it, there was a moment where his smile faded in an unintentional split-second of judgement, sizing Hawke up on behalf of his captain and sister. Isabela found it oddly endearing. The appraisal was over as soon as it began, and Dice pulled Hawke into a hug of her own, his approval apparently won.

“Dice, I take it?” Hawke asked. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All terrible things, I’m sure. But for every story she has of me, I promise I have ten more for her.”

“ _Amor_ , don’t be rude to our guests.” Miguel strolled into view before Isabela could whip any curses at his husband, giving her a kiss on each cheek. “ _Bienvenida a Antiva_. How was your journey?” 

He had traded his beard for a goatee, she noticed, and his practical seafaring garb for something far more showy… and ruffled. The jeweled dagger at his hip, though—that was a nice touch. They _were_ , she reasoned, in the land of the Crows, after all. It never hurt to be prepared.

“Not bad, considering the circumstances,” Isabela replied. “Twenty-five men working a brigantine is not exactly ideal, but we made it.”

Dice cringed at the very idea of such a tiny crew. “Aye, we heard about what happened in Kirkwall,” he said, then turned to address Hawke. “Apparently, you swooped in on a dragon and roasted the Knight-Commander like a lamb on a spit.” He laughed as Hawke shook her head in exasperation. “But no, I know the truth of it was far more gruesome. I’ve a man in Kirkwall who saw the whole thing. He got a letter to me. Said a mob tore Meredith apart in the chaos after the chantry explosion. I’m just glad you both made it out in one piece.”

So there it was. Isabela figured Meredith would escape, even if she had to sacrifice a thousand templars to do it. It was comforting to know the woman who dared to use Leandra’s death as leverage was ripped to pieces by the very people she feared most. Perhaps there was some justice in the world after all.

She introduced Miguel to Hawke (thankfully, Hawke was able to navigate an Antivan-stye greeting without accidentally getting a kiss in an awkward spot), then jumped to something far more important: “So, you’re taking us out for drinks, aren’t you?”

Dice’s eyebrows raised, the ring in his left brow moving along with them. “Oh, am I?”

“You have to. It’s my birthday.” Sound logic, surely.

Hawke glanced at her, a surprised smile lighting up her face. “You didn’t tell me it was your birthday.”

Dice crossed his arms and grunted. “She hasn’t used that line on you before? I swear, she told me,” he thrust his chest out and waved his hands in the air, putting on a terrible imitation of her accent, “‘No, really, it’s my birthday!’ every month just so I would buy her drinks.”

Isabela fervently hoped she didn’t actually sound like that. “You believed me every time, as I recall.” 

“Probably because I was drunk every time.”

“Well, it really is my birthday. At least I think it is. My mother said I was born in the second half of Harvestmere. So it could very well be today.”

Hari often told the story of Isabela’s birth. Depending on her mood, it was either a sentimental or a miserable tale. In smaller villages in Rivain, seers often performed the role of midwife, and it was a seer who brought a tiny and screaming Isabela into the world as a hurricane raged outside. According to Hari, Isabela’s ill-timed birth was the first of many inconveniences she brought to her mother. She couldn’t have been considerate enough to wait until after the storm was over. Clearly.

“She was probably drunk, too,” Dice guessed. He had heard enough of Hari to make an accurate assumption. 

“Oh, no doubt.”

“I’m sure we can fish a few coins from our pockets to buy you a drink, birthday or no,” Miguel said, despite Dice’s groan. “There is a lovely bar about half a mile away that won’t turn its nose up at a bunch of filthy pirates.”

Isabela grinned and draped an arm over the Antivan’s shoulders. “Careful, Dice. Miguel is swiftly becoming my favorite.”

“You’ll have to learn not to encourage her,” Dice said to him as they set off.

\------

There were two types of bars spread over Antiva City’s harbor district. The first kind, and by far the most prominent, were known as _los perros_. If the Hanged Man was picked up and dropped in the City, it would certainly fit in amongst “the dogs.” Those were the bars for the jacks, the rough-edged sailors hanging on the lowest rungs of the ladder. The beer was skunky and watered-down, but it was cheap and plentiful. On the other side of the coin were the rarer _leones_ , favored by well-to-do merchant captains and high-ranking naval officers. Wine and brandy were the drinks of choice at those establishments; grog was unheard of, as were calloused hands and dirty boots.

The latter was where Miguel chose to take them, to Isabela’s slight consternation. She tried to keep her irritation from showing. From her brief time on the Gilded Skull, she had learned two things about Dice’s husband: one, he was fiercely proud of his homeland, and two, he desperately wanted Isabela to like him. He didn’t need to try so hard. Miguel was a lovely man; she could tell he treated Dice admirably, and that was all she could hope for. Dice had no doubt told Miguel about Isabela’s uncomfortable history with Antiva, and Miguel was in turn no doubt wringing his hands over how to change her mind, while simultaneously striving to make Hawke’s first visit to his country a pleasant one. It was a sweet gesture, if misguided. So she would sit around this little round table and drink with the lions instead of the dogs, if only for an evening. Maybe she could convince Hawke and the boys to go rabble-rousing with her later to make up for it.

“I still can’t believe we’ve never celebrated your birthday,” Hawke said, nursing a snifter of brandy.

Isabela took a sip of her wine, so generously paid for by Dice—albeit after no small amount of whining. “Maybe I didn’t want you to know how old I am,” she replied, because that was more amusing than _I didn’t know what month it was most of the time._

Hawke chose to ignore every unwritten rule regarding a woman’s age. “How old are you?”

“You don’t look a day over fifty,” Dice joked, earning himself a punch on the arm. He would probably regret sitting next to her by the time the night was through.

“Shut up, you ball-gargler. I’m…” She had to think about it a bit. Six years in Kirkwall, six more in the Armada before that, and she was twenty-one when Bones died in 9:25… “Thirty-three? Yes, thirty-three. I think.”

Dice put his arm around her, if only to avoid more attacks. “You were just a baby when we met. Not even twenty. And I was, what? Twenty-six? Gods, we were young and stupid.”

“Yes, and now we’re old and stupid.” Isabela and Dice clinked glasses.

“You were a captain at twenty?” asked Miguel, who had surely never been stupid a day in his life.

“She was! And she never let you forget it. Terribly bossy.” Dice leaned back in his chair to address Hawke around Isabela’s other side. “I imagine that hasn’t changed, has it?”

Hawke caught Isabela’s eye, and the smile on her face suggested that no, it had not changed, and that yes, she absolutely liked it that way.

“But you followed her anyway,” Hawke said, letting Dice’s rhetorical question speak for itself.

“Of course! She’s a damn fine captain. But some of the jobs she had us run…” He took a drink of his coffee and grimaced.

The glimmer in Hawke’s eyes was a dangerous one. “You can’t just say that and _not_ tell us.”

There were so many stories Dice could’ve picked. The chicken one. The Nevarran painting theft. The crashing of Comte de Mourier’s wedding. But she knew exactly which one he would choose to maximize her embarrassment.

“Oh, I’ve just the one. She came up to us one day—me and Bones, I mean—and she’s got this look in her eyes, and I just _know_ we’ll be neck-deep in trouble. She says, ‘I’ve got the gig to end all gigs, boys. We’re gonna be rich.’”

Of course. Of course _this_ was the story he’d pick. “Are you really going to tell this one? You want to ruin your captain’s reputation, Dice?” Isabela accused.

“What, you think Hawke doesn’t already know what a loon you are? Aye, I can see by her face that she’s well aware. Anyway, Bela’s all but rubbing her hands together and cackling, and I’ll admit, I was curious. We’d had pretty steady work since the Black Cat sunk, but nothing exciting. So she lowers her voice like she’s got some big secret, and she says, ‘We’re going to Par Vollen to smuggle…’” He paused for dramatic effect, and Hawke and Miguel both leaned in, enraptured. “‘Bananas.’”

Isabela sighed. The bananas. Those cursed bananas. Her greatest folly.

Miguel chuckled politely. “Ah, I have also smuggled a few bananas in my time, I think,” he said, throwing a wink at Dice.

Hawke was skeptical. “Bananas? Since when does fruit require smuggling?”

Swapping their glasses, Isabela tried Hawke’s brandy and winced. A fine way to waste good wine. “Look, when you’re getting goods from Par Vollen, it all counts as smuggling. Have you even _seen_ a banana before, Hawke?”

Given the amount of attention Hawke was suddenly paying to Isabela’s wine glass, it was safe to assume she had not.

Undeterred by their southern guest’s lack of experience with tropical fruits, Dice continued: “Now, I realize this sounds fucking stupid, but she wasn’t completely mental. Bananas don’t grow particularly well anywhere but Par Vollen, so if you can get them to market in Rivain fast enough, they’ll fetch a good price.

“You’re familiar with smuggling, right? You get to the drop, maybe meet your contact if you need to, load up and get out as fast as you can. Well, we make it all the way to Par Vollen to find out that not only does our dear captain _not_ have a contact, she doesn’t even know where the bloody bananas are. She thought we’d just land on the island, find some trees, and go fruit-picking.”

Isabela snatched her wine glass back from Hawke and waved it about, coming dangerously close to launching its contents over the rim. “You know I’m terrible at thinking things through. Believe me, it seemed like a great idea at the time!”

“So we’re wandering around the jungle, flies everywhere, sweating our balls off trying to find these damned bananas. There’s only about a dozen of us out there; the rest were kept on the ship to guard it, seeing as how we're in enemy territory. We’re all about ready to mutiny when we finally find a whole grove of banana trees. Great, right? Well, no. You can’t just reach up and pluck them out like apples. You have to cut the whole tree down, and there’s no quiet way to do that. But we came this far. We couldn’t leave empty-handed. We got our machetes out and started hacking away.”

“I’m sure that went well,” Hawke said lightly, her chin planted on her fists, caught up in the tale. Her brandy lay forgotten on the table.

“Oh, it did! We were able to get a few armloads back to the boat. And then… the Qunari found us.”

“First their bananas, then their holy book…” Hawke tutted, but she was unable to hide her smile. “Isabela, I’m beginning to think you ought to avoid stealing from the Qunari.”

Isabela was less amused. “What a _profound_ idea, Hawke. Thank you.”

“Just when we thought it couldn’t get worse… Par Vollen has these feral boars all over the island. Size of ponies, with razor-sharp tusks as big as your arm. Mean sons of bitches. Apparently, they are _very_ protective of their bananas. So now we have both the Qunari _and_ these pigs chasing us through the jungle. I don’t know how we managed to find the ship again, but we did. Only problem is, there’s no way we can shove off fast enough, not with the Qunari and their spears on our tails.”

The memory of it had dulled in the last thirteen years, but as Dice described their ill-fated adventure, Isabela could once again feel the unbearable heat and humidity of Par Vollen crushing down on her. She remembered the frustration of her crew and the youthful arrogance keeping her from cutting her losses and getting everyone home safely. The cold dread when she heard the shouts in Qunlat. The vines of the rainforest slapping against her arms and legs and threatening to tangle around her feet as she sprinted for the beach. A stupid, dangerous idea, but not her first, and certainly not her last. The shame of it brought an angry blush to her cheeks.

Dice went on: “Captain Isabela was screaming for the hands on the ship to get their weapons and join us. We had to turn and fight the Qunari and the boars, both. We had the benefit of numbers, but you’ve seen how those horned bastards fight, and the pigs were just as fierce. About half a dozen of our boys were killed and twice as many injured before we could get away. Bones had his work cut out for him on the trip back, that was for sure.”

Miguel clasped his hands together on the table in front of him. “But you still got some bananas, didn’t you?” he asked, his tone bright with barely-restrained laughter.

“Oh aye, we did. And _that_ ,” Dice announced, stabbing his finger into the air, “is the best part of the tale. I don’t know what spirit we angered, but I tell you, there was _no_ wind the entire way back. Dead still. We had to row across the whole Northern Passage. And then the bananas started to go bad, and we hadn’t stocked enough food for an extended trip, so,” he heaved a dramatic sigh, “we were forced to eat them all.”

And then Dice started to laugh, at first a snicker that seemed too small for his giant frame, then louder, his shoulders shaking, until the whole bar was filled with the sound, a hoarse roar that turned every head. It was infectious, and Hawke and Miguel joined in, then Isabela, too, until her sides ached and tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You were so mad,” she forced out between giggles. Time healed all wounds, or so the saying went. What was a nightmare then was a great story now, a balm for the sting of her mistakes.

Dice wiped his eyes and coughed. “I was! Absolutely fuming. I swore I would never work with her again. Obviously, that didn’t happen, but I promise you this: I have not eaten a fucking banana since.”

Hawke’s hand found Isabela’s under the table. “That reminds me of when she sent all of us in Kirkwall on a wild goose chase for her ‘relic.’ A whole day’s worth of digging in the Wounded Coast, and what do we find? A box with an old boot.”

“We had fun, though, didn’t we? That’s what counts.” She squeezed Hawke’s hand and remembered how they could only sit in the sand and laugh after they finally managed to dig it up, letting their prize get washed away in the surf. Turning to Dice, she said, “And this is why I let you start picking out the jobs we took. And probably why I ended up in massive debt to the Armada when we were apart.”

Miguel sobered, his brow knit with concern. “Dice told me Castillon Escriva was hunting you? That’s a powerful, dangerous man to be in debt to.”

“ _Was_ hunting me. Past tense.” And now he was rotting at the bottom of Kirkwall’s harbor. “Or how else did you think I got that new ship?”

Though perhaps she owed his decomposing corpse some gratitude. Without his “simple bit of thievery” job, she never would have ended up in Kirkwall. She offered a silent thank you for strange twists of fate.

“That’s my captain!” Dice hooted, clapping her on the shoulder; she struggled to keep her wine from spilling. “Have you twisted the knickers of any other Raiders? I’d like to know who I need to keep on eye on.”

“Not to my knowledge, but who knows; I have a penchant for unintentionally making people want to murder me.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, really. I’m getting their tattoo covered up as soon as I get to Llomerryn. I’m done.”

“You’re giving up the life?” Dice asked.

Isabela snorted. “Fuck no. I’m giving up the Felicísima Armada, not piracy. I’m no good at anything else. But I do it on my own terms now.”

Dice stroked his beard with a thumb, suddenly deep in contemplation. “You know, I could join the Gilded Skull to yours, if you wanted. Probably a few other captains out there who might be interested in branching out, too.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a devilish grin. “How does ‘Admiral Isabela’ sound to you?”

The title struck her like a dive into a lake on a sweltering summer day, like a fiery kiss, filling her heart with pride and her head with dreams. Admiral. She could have her own fleet, her own loyal men. They would do the jobs she wanted. No slaves. And she, at last, would answer to no one.

Her gaze met Hawke’s, and she asked for permission, for trust. Hawke’s eyes were bright, wild with promise, and Isabela saw her future as sure as any seer. A future they could share. 

“It sounds like I’m going to need a bigger hat.”

\------

They spent several hours in that bar, dogs among lions, trading stories and antagonizing the other patrons with their antics until the bartender eventually summoned the bouncers to kick them out. The open night air was a far better atmosphere for revelry, anyway. Even Miguel loosened up after a few glasses, dragging Hawke away by the arm to point out his favorite bits of architecture and teach her some—no doubt crucial—phrases of Antivan.

Dice took the opportunity to approach Isabela then, pulling something out from inside his coat. “Happy birthday, Captain. A little bird told me you might like this,” he said as she took it from his hands.

A bottle of wine. Under the freshly-lit torchlight cast down from the building walls, she read the label, a small, wistful smile dawning as she realized what it was.

“Seleny Red. A clever little bird, indeed.”

They both looked at Hawke, leaning against the railing at the edge of the promenade, following Miguel’s sweeping gestures at the towering arch bridge penning in the harbor. Isabela could see the smile on her face even from where she and Dice were standing. It was strange how all three of their paths managed to weave together in the end, despite her best efforts to escape. For whatever reason, Hawke and Dice withstood the storm.

“She’s a fine woman,” Dice said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy.”

“Makes sense. I don’t think I’ve ever _been_ this happy before.”

“Look at us. Couple of salty old knaves in love. We’re a disgrace.” He put his arm around her and nodded toward the east, where the bay glistened, black as onyx. “You ought to take Hawke down the Coast Way to split this bottle. It’s a gorgeous night for it.”

“I was going to! You think I don’t know how to be romantic?” Before he could speak, she was quick to add, “Nevermind, don’t answer that.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I know you know. You’ve always had a sentimental heart underneath all that bluster. Enjoy it.” His tone softened, as did her heart along with it when he said, “You’ve gone through enough shit in your life; it’s high time someone treated you like a queen.”

She suddenly felt an obnoxious tingling behind her eyes. “You absolute wanker. Don’t make me cry. You deserve it, too. We’ve both gone through enough shit.”

“Aye, true enough. It was hard, coming back here the first time. It’s gotten easier, though, the more I visit. Crowds some of the bad out, I guess. But you haven’t been here since he passed, have you?”

Isabela shook her head. “I haven’t, no. I’m not as brave as you are.”

“It’s not about bravery. Having someone you love with you makes all the difference.” Gripped by memories, his words came out strained. “I hope…” He cleared his throat. “I hope Antiva can be a good place for the both of us.” Turning away from her, he tilted his head back to look up at the sky, though Isabela figured it was less about stargazing and more about keeping his tears contained.

She gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll go take a stroll down that Coast Way with Hawke. But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

Dice grunted something that could possibly be interpreted as, “Captain.” 

Offering him one last pat on the arm, she left to join Hawke and Miguel at the railing. Miguel was rambling about the sociopolitical environment in Antiva: the structure of the plutocracy, the systematic weakening of royal authority by both the Crows and the merchant princes, and the lingering effects of the civil war, among other things. Hawke was doing her best to keep up and remain engaged, but when she saw Isabela approach, her expression communicated a sincere desire to be absolutely anywhere else.

“ _Hermano_ , I’m afraid I’m going to have to steal Hawke away from you,” Isabela said, and she didn’t miss the beaming smile the endearment earned her. She supposed she could add Miguel to her very short list of Non-Bastard Antivans.

Miguel inclined his head and took a step back. “Of course, my dear. I am sure I’ve bored her enough with my babbling for one evening. Have a wonderful night.”

“Thank you.” Hawke let out a relieved sigh as he left. “He’s a sweetheart, but I’m not sure I could take any more lessons on the political leverage of Antiva’s largest banks.”

“I could give you a lesson about the time I slept with Princess Ferenna. You want to talk about ‘political leverage’… mm.” 

“You are so vile.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” Hawke brushed her fingers across Isabela’s hand, the one holding the bottle. “So are you taking me somewhere special to drink this, or should we just…” An eyebrow raise and a smirk. “Go back to the ship?”

Dangerous. The urge to skip the date and go straight to bed was enticing, but Isabela resisted, a truly heroic effort on her part.

“Shush, you wicked temptress. I’m trying to be romantic.” With no further argument, she slipped Hawke’s hand in hers and started walking in the direction of the boulevard.

Antiva City at night was breathtaking; even Isabela could admit as much. The path lining the bay shifted to a gentle incline, leveling out well above the water. The Coast Way itself started soon after, marked by limestone tiles flanked by blue and white mosaics, their stones inlaid into cresting waves. And along the path, just as she remembered, were the round glass lanterns hanging from hooks on metal posts, a mile of glowing spheres. Periodically, the path split off, leading to tiny gazebos overlooking the bay. Most of these were filled with musicians looking to make a few coppers from enamored fools hoping to impress their dates with their generous donations to the arts.

The ones that didn’t have musicians still tended to be occupied by lovers participating in other various romantic activities, some pairs more clandestine than others. _Oh, Antiva._

Isabela took note. “I have a feeling we won’t find a good place to sit and drink this, unless you like a little voyeurism with your wine.”

“I _am_ capable of walking and drinking at the same time, believe it or not.” Hawke handed the wine to Isabela, who had long since proven herself a master at uncorking bottles with anything she had at hand. Including, on one memorable occasion, a torch.

Tonight, however, would be far more pedestrian. Pulling a throwing knife from her belt, she worked the cork free, putting it into her pocket as a souvenir. She let Hawke take the first drink, because Isabela was a giver, really.

Hawke sighed as the bottle left her lips. “Oh, this takes me back,” she said, giving the wine to Isabela. “I can’t believe we were going to have sex on the Merchants’ Guild roof.”

“And then fucking Donnic had to ruin everything.” Isabela had never let him, nor, by extension, Aveline, live it down. Her biggest regret about missing their wedding was losing out on the chance to tease Donnic about his “excessive predilection for investigating” in front of everyone they knew.

“I’m pretty sure it was your fault for not locking the hatch.”

“Details, details.” Isabela waved her free hand while she took a drink, then passed the bottle back. “I don’t recall you mentioning anything about that while you had your hand down my pants. You know,” she said, watching Hawke tip the bottle to her mouth, “before I saw your name all over the book at the Rose, I thought maybe you were a virgin and that’s why you were holding out on me.”

Hawke gave a surprised burst of laughter, interrupting the backdrop of musical serenades and distant sounds of the sea crashing into the cliffs below. “Ah, no. I had been thoroughly sullied by that point.”

“Oh, really? I don’t think you’ve ever told me about your first time, now that I think about it.”

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Pfft. Like I wasn’t going to? Mine was… shit, it was a long time ago. I think I was just shy of fourteen.”

It was a fond memory from a time in her life where few things could be described as such. Messy black hair and big brown eyes. Nervous giggles and clumsy hands. At least it was in a bed. Somehow that made it feel more legitimate. _My parents are gone to the mainland for the week. Come over?_ She knew what was likely to happen. But he still asked before he did anything. Not everyone did.

“That’s… young,” Hawke remarked, and there was no scrutiny or blame there, just a note of curiosity. Hawke never judged her, for which Isabela was extremely grateful.

“I was. But all my friends were older and already experienced in such things, and I desperately wanted to be an adult. Sometimes I wish I’d waited a bit longer, but it is what it is. He wasn’t much older, himself. Sweet boy.” She chuckled. “He felt so bad when it was all over in ten seconds. But he got better with practice. So did I, I imagine.”

What was his name? Naim? Adeem? He and his family moved north a few months before she was sold. They had grown apart, fighting over stupid things the way only teenagers can do, but she still missed him when he left. Naseem. That was his name.

Hawke interrupted Isabela’s reminiscing: “Well, this is terribly Fereldan of me, but my first time was in a barn.” She paused for a moment of consideration. “At least it wasn’t in a dog kennel.”

Isabela narrowly avoided spitting a mouthful of wine all over the flagstones. 

“A literal roll in the hay? Oh Hawke, that’s precious. Who was she? How old were you?” She remembered Hawke’s childhood crush and gasped, all playful drama. “Was it Kattrin?”

“Sadly, Kattrin didn’t fancy girls. Which was a whole different sort of adolescent angst. No, this was Clara. I was seventeen; it was a few years after we moved to Lothering. Our parents were friends, so we saw each other a lot. We had fooled around a bit before that, but one evening, while our parents were at a dinner party in the house, we snuck off to the barn, and one thing led to another, and…” Hawke shrugged, pink blooming across her cheeks.

“How was it? Were there animals? Did you give some horses a show?”

Hawke sputtered with laughter. “No, the horses were out to pasture, for your information. And we were up in the hayloft, anyway. It was… good. I mean, I had bits of hay absolutely everywhere for weeks and a hickey the size of a sovereign on my neck, but it was fun. It must have been, considering how often we ended up ‘doing chores’ in the barn that summer.”

Isabela mimed writing as Hawke took the bottle back. “Note to self: rural architecture gets Hawke all hot and bothered. I’ll have to keep that in mind the next time we’re in a more pastoral setting.”

“Excuse me, Miss ‘Gets Aroused By Sailing Vessels.’ You don’t have a leg to stand on.”

“I don’t. But that’s your fault. We could be in the middle of a haunted swamp and I’d still want to fuck you.”

“Goodness, Isabela, you’re _so_ romantic.” 

Despite her sarcasm, Hawke was gazing at her all starry-eyed, like Isabela had just recited the most passionate sonnet. And maybe she wasn’t ever going to be a poet or one of the guitarists crooning love songs in the gazebos, but Hawke seemed to find her charming just the same.

They walked in silence for a time, passing the bottle back and forth, pointing out constellations, enjoying the atmosphere. But as they neared the end of the Coast Way, Isabela remembered why she never ventured this way with Aiden.

Though noble mansions—locally known as _palazzi_ —were scattered about Antiva City, many of them perched along the Coast Way, clustered at the beginning and end of the boulevard like vultures. Gargantuan rectangular or horseshoe-shaped structures with lushly-planted rooftop terraces, their extravagance was only expected in a country where ostentatiousness was a mark of status.

And there at the end, looming over the last set of round lanterns, was her gilded prison.

Her step faltered, breath catching in her throat, the bottle of wine hanging from her limp arm, forgotten. There was the window on the third floor. How many hours had she spent looking down at this very spot, locked inside that room?

She didn’t even know who owned the _palazzo_ now. Luis had no heirs, at least none that she was aware of. She certainly hadn’t provided him any—one of the many things they fought over. Inheritance was important to all the merchant princes of Antiva, and Luis was no exception. He wanted a young bride largely for that reason, a misguided promise of fertility. There was a sick irony in what she now knew of her body; she never could have given him the heirs he so deeply desired.

“Isabela?” Hawke’s voice came from eighteen years away.

When Hawke touched her arm, Isabela fought to keep from recoiling, fought to stay in 9:37 Dragon instead of drowning in 9:19. She wasn’t trapped behind that window anymore. She wasn’t pouring brandy and contorting her mouth into a smile. She was no longer “entertainment.” She wasn’t, she _wasn’t_.

“Are you okay?” Hawke again, more concerned now, stepping in front of Isabela to block her line of sight.

Isabela shook her head, as though she could physically remove the memories so cruelly surfacing from the mire. 

“No, I’m not.”

Not an easy thing to admit, and not an easy thing to watch out of the corner of her eye—Hawke’s head turning, following Isabela’s frozen stare to fluted marble columns and elaborately carved cornices. Isabela tore her eyes away from the mansion to see the realization spread cold as frost across Hawke’s face.

Hawke didn’t ask any questions or offer sympathies. Instead, she gently took Isabela by the hand and said, “Let’s keep walking.”

So they walked, and walked, until the Coast Way’s flagstones and mosaics gave way to gravel, until the crowds thinned to nothing, until the path dipped back down to kiss the sea and Isabela’s head cleared enough to speak.

“Somehow I managed to forget that Luis’s estate was at the end of the Coast Way,” she said, picking her way across rocks made slippery by ocean spray. She found a dry spot and sat, Hawke and the half-empty bottle of wine soon joining her.

“I can’t blame you for wanting to forget that.”

Isabela grabbed the bottle but didn’t drink, holding it between her knees instead, running her fingers up and down the glass neck.

“Do you know how old I was when I lived there?” she asked, though she knew it was information she had never shared. When Hawke said no, she continued: “I was fifteen. What were you doing at that age? Kissing girls in barns? Having dinner with your family? I didn’t have any of that. Any sense of normalcy was taken from me.” She watched the waves catch the light of the moons as they collapsed into the rocks at her feet. “What did I have? I had an old man for a husband who never took no for an answer. In his mind, I was just a pretty toy. Because he paid for me, that gave him the right to use me whenever he wanted. I was his property.”

She didn’t feel angry or bitter. Just sad, mourning a lost childhood and the innocence continually denied to her from birth.

“I never got to walk that path we did tonight because he forbade me from leaving his estate. Eventually, he installed locks on the outside of my bedroom door.”

Taking a long pull from the bottle, she tried to use the flavors on her tongue to remember happier times. Those wonderful and terrifying feelings on the rooftop, when she was already starting to fall for a stubborn, soft-hearted woman with a clever smile.

Hawke drew her knees up to her chest and looked out to sea, where the tip of Rivain was lurking far beyond view. “I wish I had more to offer beyond ‘I’m sorry,’” she said quietly. “Because that feels so completely inadequate.”

“It’s all right. I still appreciate the sentiment.” Isabela rolled the bottle between her hands. “You know, I stayed here in the city for a few years after he was killed. I didn’t know where else to go. You remember Aiden? The man I was in love with? He always wanted to do what we did tonight, but I couldn’t face it. And then, after Bones, I couldn’t even leave the boat when we had to dock here.” Her hand left the bottle and reached for Hawke’s face, fingertips ghosting over her cheek. “But… you’re the reason I can come here now. I… I feel like I can handle anything so long as you’re beside me.”

She shifted over until her hip pressed into Hawke’s. It was a comfortable sort of contact, a reminder of the present moment. Closing her eyes, she found peace the way she always did, in the rhythmic impact of the tides against the shore, their eternal waxing and waning. She was here. The past could burn.

When she at last turned her head away from the waves, Hawke was looking at her.

“Can I kiss you?” Hawke asked.

An unusual request, perhaps, but Isabela thought she understood the reasoning behind it. Hawke wanted to give her a choice, a respect so few in her life had ever bothered to offer.

“Of course.”

Isabela let her take the lead, Hawke’s palm gentle against her face. So delicate a touch given to so indelicate a woman, she thought. But that was always how Hawke was with her. Intuitive pressure. She was hard when Isabela wanted hard, and soft when Isabela needed soft, even in the times when she could not find the words to ask for it. And right now, with old wounds ripped back open, she needed softness, she needed understanding, and if such things could be felt in a kiss, she felt it.

Hawke’s eyes reflected the stars when they separated. “I love you,” she said.

In the countless times she had said those words since that night at sea, Hawke always spoke them with such gravitas, as though every time might be the last. And every time Isabela heard them, it was like the first time, and she thought her heart might leave her chest.

But still, there was a nagging thought in the back of her head, stealing her joy. “Does it bother you that I can’t say it back?”

“No, it doesn’t. Because you get this little smile on your face every time you hear it. And your eyes go all soft. Like you’re about to melt right into the ground.”

Isabela thought she would feel more self-conscious from Hawke’s observation, but there was only relief. She was glad Hawke could see it. If her mouth ceased to work, if the words could never escape the confines of her ribs, at least she had some way to show it. She would pour it into every smile, every look, every touch, for as long as she had to.

“Are you sure about that? Better say it again, just to be certain.”

So Hawke said it again, and a little more of Isabela’s past washed away. With time, and with courage, perhaps the shadows of this country lurking in the corners of her mind could be forced into light. It was worth a try. She had learned to love another person. Maybe she could learn to love Antiva, too.


	30. Post-DA2, Part 4: "Wild Things"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allesia Cara: "Wild Things"  
>  _So gather all the rebels now_  
>  _We'll rabble-rouse and sing aloud_  
>  _We don't care what they say no way, no way_  
>  _And we will leave the empty chairs_  
>  _To those who say we can't sit there_  
>  _We're fine all by ourselves_  
>  _Find me where the wild things are_
> 
> There are three songs for this last chapter! Besides the one above, there's also:  
> "Rose Tattoo" by Dropkick Murphys, and  
> “Anyone Else” by PVRIS
> 
> A series of vignettes, in chronological order, that takes place between the end of 9:37 Dragon and the beginning of 9:38.

Isabela knew Llomerryn almost as well as she knew her ships. The island wasn’t especially large, after all: under twenty miles across its narrowest length, about double that from tip to tip. Even in the few years she lived there as a girl, she spent enough time wandering away from home to learn every alley, every market stall, every bend of the coastline. She knew the tea shop run by the old woman on the southwest side of the docks had the best _ihe_ on the island. She knew the food stall toward the end of _Anahia_ sold a seafood soup that could knock out the nastiest of hangovers. She knew which beach on the northeast point had two palm trees spaced perfectly apart to hang a hammock and catch the sunset. But it had all become routine to her, fading into shades of grey and beige. The magic of the island had evaporated with time and exposure and uncomfortable memories.

But now, as they prepared to dock, she was seeing Llomerryn with new eyes. For the first time, she had someone else to show it to. Someone else to drink tea and chase away hangovers and watch sunsets with. It was a little nerve-wracking. She wasn’t sure what Hawke would think or how she would react. Rivain was nothing like Ferelden or the Marches, and Llomerryn, despite its melting-pot reputation, was no exception. It was loud and colorful and free, all the things Kirkwall was not.

Despite Isabela’s apprehension, Hawke appeared nothing but thrilled as the island came fully into view; she pressed against the starboard railing, avoiding the foremast’s rotating spars as the crew prepared to stow the sails. 

“How far do these docks go?” Hawke asked, hand a flat plane above her brows to block the sun. She stared at the array of piers stretching endlessly into the ocean like a dropped pile of kindling.

Isabela spun astern and called for hands to douse the headsails. The order echoed like a shout in a cavern from man to man, all the way down the deck, and a herd of sailors rushed by her and Hawke to start bringing in the four triangular sails at the front of the ship. Dice had sent his pick of men with her for the journey from Antiva City to Llomerryn. They were seasoned sailors, to be sure, and though it was a short trip to the island, it had been exceptionally smooth. 

When she was satisfied they had things well in hand, she turned back to Hawke, curving an arm around her waist to draw her close. “All along the southwest edge of the island,” she answered. “And it’s still not enough. The fights I’ve seen over who gets docking rights make the Exalted Marches look like child’s play.”

“Where are we docking, then?” Hawke smiled. “Will I need my sword?”

“Oh, I doubt we’ll see any trouble. As far as Llomerryn is concerned, this is an Armada vessel. I’ll bet you anything Castillon had his own spot right on the docks.” She inclined her head back toward the mainmast, where the Raider flag now fluttered in the breeze. “And we’re going to take it.”

Hawke pressed her lips to Isabela’s temple. “As you do.”

“Damn right I do.”

The sails were furled and the crew went to the oars to steer Second Chance into port. As Isabela expected, there was a spot conveniently available right on the wharf for a vessel just her size. Really, killing Castillon and taking his ship had been one of the better decisions she had made in her life. 

When the mooring lines were set and the anchor was dropped, Isabela stayed on deck to see her crew off as Hawke went to their quarters to fetch Brutus. Isabela wasn’t sure how the Rivaini would handle a mabari among them. The dogs of the island were almost invariably feral, scrawny little beasts. Certainly not half the size of a man and just as smart. Convincing the innkeeper to allow Brutus to stay with them would be, she realized, a trial and a half. But she wasn’t about to make him sleep outside with the strays. He was her dog now, too. Not that she would ever tell _him_ that. 

Said dog and owner arrived back abovedecks in time to watch the last of Dice’s crew disembark. Brutus pranced along the top of the gangplank, paws thudding against the wood, apparently ready to do anything that wasn’t sitting on a ship. He clearly wasn’t as much a fan of sailing as his owners, but he only threw up once, not long out of Kirkwall, and had held his guts since. Isabela was grateful for little miracles.

“Do you think the harbormaster will care if Castillon is nowhere to be found on his own ship?” Hawke asked.

Isabela laughed at Hawke’s well-meaning, if misguided, concern. “Oh, Hawke. We’re in Llomerryn now. They don’t even _have_ a harbormaster. If you’ve got the balls to take a spot,” she waved a hand around to all the ships jockeying for position, “it’s yours.”

“And you’ve got the biggest set on the island, I’m sure.”

“Absolutely enormous. That’s why I keep them in a chest on the ship, otherwise they’d just drag all over the ground.” 

Now Hawke looked vaguely horrified. “There is something distinctly wrong with you, Isabela.”

“And you’ve known it for years, yet you’re still here.” Hawke had no response for that besides a shrug and a slightly pained, crooked smile. “So, was there anything in particular you wanted to do first?” Isabela asked her.

Hawke peered out to the docks, to all the squat buildings huddled on the streets, many with their fronts left open to the air, a necessity given the year-round heat. “Do you think we could get some tea? I’m ready to experience these mysterious, exotic things you call ‘coconuts.’”

So they walked, Isabela and Hawke and Brutus, down the plank to those red and black mottled cobblestones, past the bar where Isabela once knocked three of Black Dan’s teeth out, past the alley where she seduced Captain Chase while Dice and Bones scuttled his ship, past the corner where she sat on a crate and cried after yet another fight with her mother. All of these things had tangled together within her mind over the years, blending into a net trapping her memories of the island, but she unraveled every strand for Hawke. 

And Hawke took each of Isabela’s threads, holding them like spun gold. Every step was a new one, a new opportunity, a new memory coloring over the old ones, like linen dipped into dye. Hawke asked question after question, soaking up Isabela’s past: every fight, every lover, every shed tear.

Eventually, they came to her favorite tea shop. It wasn’t much of a shop; only a small room with an _ihe_ brazier and jars of tea and spices. All the tables were outside, spread under palm leaf awnings and set with the appropriate accompaniments. As far as Isabela knew from all the times she had been a patron, the only one who worked there was the owner, a quiet old woman who shuffled the five steps from the brazier to the tables like she was going to war, who poured tea like it was her solemn duty.

The woman was there as always, and if she recognized Isabela, she didn’t show it, eyeing her and Hawke with suspicion. She either didn’t know the King’s Tongue or chose not to speak it, so Isabela handled the transaction, though the old woman tended to communicate in grunts and grumbles anyway. She stared at Brutus with what Isabela interpreted as distaste, but as long as they stayed outside, there wasn’t much the old woman could do about it. Brutus, for his part, tried his best to look charming, sitting outside the shop with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, a string of drool pooling on the ground underneath him. Though judging from the old woman’s grimace, maybe it was only charming to Isabela.

“Oh, that smells amazing,” Hawke sighed as the scent of toasting spices hit their noses. But then she frowned. “Wait. You’re supposed to cook them first? You never told me!”

“I didn’t drink tea with you and your mother expecting authenticity,” Isabela replied, smiling at the memory. 

It wasn’t roasted, there wasn’t a coconut in sight, it wasn’t brewed nearly strong enough, but it didn’t matter. Hawke and Leandra tried. They remembered where Isabela was from, even when she herself was trying to forget it, and that’s what counted.

Hawke took a seat at one of the three small mahogany tables, investigating the saucers of sugar and coconut milk. “What did you think, that first time she brought it out?” she asked.

“Well, as you recall, I came to your estate ready and willing to finally have a full night of passion with you, so I was a _bit_ conflicted.” The amount of hoops she jumped through to get Hawke into bed with her would’ve scandalized a younger, more impatient Isabela. And yet, and yet. “But no, really, I was touched. And... a little worried.”

“Worried?”

Isabela picked up her teaspoon and pointed it at Hawke. “Because a woman who goes through all that trouble is probably falling in love. Or would like to be, at the very least.”

“I don’t… I don’t know if I was quite in love yet, but,” Hawke gazed out to somewhere years ago and smiled, “I was falling fast, that’s true. All I know is that I desperately wanted you to like me.”

“I did like you! Maker, if I didn’t, I would’ve run away the second Leandra opened the door.”

She wanted to. The warning bells were ringing loud and clear in her head, but she ignored them. Maybe, she thought, Hawke wasn’t the only one falling fast that afternoon.

Hawke traced her fingertip around the edge of her saucer, eyes on the table. “I wanted you to stay so badly that night. But I was afraid of scaring you off.”

“I know. I wish I could’ve been honest with myself earlier.” Isabela waited for Hawke to look up at her again. “And honest with you. About everything.”

So much pain could have been avoided if only she had trusted Hawke to catch her when she fell. But years and years of falling—whether shoved by another or jumping of her own volition—with no one behind her had trained her well. She lived the only way she knew how. It was easy to look back on the roundabout path she took to the present and see the shortcut straight up the middle. But when she was picking her way through the trees, desperate to find a way out, she might as well have been blind.

Hawke understood. “Perhaps. But you had your reasons.” A teasing smile. “And I know you don’t do anything until you’re ready.”

The old woman hobbled over with the teapot, an ancient, chipped vessel likely passed down through at least three previous generations. Despite its apparent age, it was a beautiful work of art. Black porcelain, gold enamel. Broad, heart-shaped leaves and lush jungle flowers Isabela didn’t know the names of swirled around the base and up the neck.

The old woman gripped the handle carefully yet firmly, almost hiding the tremors in her gnarled fingers as she poured. Their cups now full, she cradled the teapot in her hands, heedless of its radiating heat, and fixed Isabela with an inscrutable stare, eyes the color of old leather under bushy white brows. 

“ _Arazo nwere-ezin_ ," she muttered.

So she _did_ remember. Isabela smiled and bowed her head. “ _Daalkile. Ana hawale_.” 

The shop owner grunted and shuffled to the back of the room, rearranging her jars of spices for what was likely the hundredth time that day.

Hawke picked up her tiny clay cup and held it in her palm. “Two questions: what did you two just say, and is bowing a thing here?”

“She told me to stay out of trouble. I said thank you and that I would try.” Not that she was ever any good at it. “And bowing is only a thing if you’re talking to old women. Or seers, no matter their age.” 

“So she knows you?”

“I came here a lot before Kirkwall.” Taking the saucer of coconut milk from the table, Isabela poured a steady stream into her tea until it was the color of straw, then dropped in two chunks of golden sugar. “But I’m surprised she remembers me.”

Hawke followed suit with her own cup. “You do have a memorable personality.” Before Isabela had time to ask if that was a good thing or not, Hawke took a sip and blinked a few times. “Oh, wow. That really is nothing like what we had in Kirkwall, is it?”

It wasn’t, but she hoped Hawke didn’t feel bad about it. “It’s… adjacent. A variation! Southern-style!” 

Hawke laughed and seemed to accept that logic. They sipped their tea in silence, Brutus trotting back and forth between them, needing more attention than either Isabela or Hawke alone could provide. Isabela couldn’t help but marvel at what was happening. She was back in her homeland, back to the country that birthed her, shaped her, left imprints on her soul despite everywhere else she had traveled since. And now she was here with a woman who loved her, who wanted to explore each of those imprints with her, everything that had formed the coasts of Isabela. Her life had come full circle in a way she never could have anticipated when she was here at twelve years old, or twenty, or even the year before. Every mistake, every success, every misstep and every course correction—they had all led her back to the island.

“What’s that smile for?” Hawke asked, mirroring it with one of her own and brushing her fingers over Isabela’s, their hands meeting between tea cups.

“I’m just… I’m happy you’re here. That’s all. I’m just happy”

* * *

“I suppose now that we’re here for the next while, I should teach you some important Rivaini phrases.”

They were both sitting on the bed in the room Isabela had managed to secure them at the Full and By. It was just down the hall from the room she had stayed in the last time she was here, and it looked much the same: a pitched ceiling lined with bamboo poles, leading to teak planks for the walls, set with large windows facing the ocean over the bed. The bed itself was decently-sized, bigger than what she had at the Hanged Man, though not as large as Hawke’s four poster. It was clad with lightweight sheets that were more a courtesy than anything else in the damp heat of Rivain’s rainy season. But it was light and airy, designed for the climate, and Isabela assumed they would be spending a lot of time there when the rain or the afternoon sun proved unbearable.

Not that she minded being stuck in bed with Hawke.

“Yes, you probably should,” Hawke said, leaning back until she was flat against the mattress, bare toes just brushing the floor. “I know how to say, ‘I want you’ and ‘You make me so wet,’ but I can’t imagine that’s especially practical for living here.”

“See, you say things like that and suddenly I want to skip the lessons,” Isabela purred, rolling over onto her stomach and pressing her lips to Hawke’s.

Hawke reluctantly pushed her away before the whole afternoon was lost. “Focus, Isabela. We’re learning Rivaini. We can break in this bed later tonight, I promise.”

“All right, as long as you promise.” Isabela sat back up, as did her eager pupil. “So, we’ll start with swearing and innuendos. This is crucial, trust me.”

“Shouldn’t we start with something more basic than that? Like, I don’t know... ‘Hello?’ ‘Goodbye?’ ‘Please and thank you?’”

“You can figure those out later. These are more important.” Ignoring Hawke’s skeptical snort, she barreled on. “Now, you know I love a good insult or double-entendre. But what you don’t know is that in Rivain, these things are considered an artform of their own.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am not, I swear! You might just _think_ I have a dirty mind, but it’s actually a cultural mandate. It’s how we bond and settle disputes. If you’ve got a clever tongue, you’ll earn respect.”

Hawke smirked. “And Maker knows you’ve got one of those.”

“See? You’ll do just fine.” Isabela clapped her hands, impatient to begin the lesson. “We’ll start simple: allusions to genitals.”

“What?” Hawke burst into surprised giggles.

“You laugh, but it’s just cocks and cunts all the way down the line here. If you’re meeting some new friends and they ask you, ‘ _Banana idkhe_?' ‘Do you like bananas?’ If you just say yes, we’re all going to laugh at you and you’ll be embarrassed once you figure it out. But if you realize what’s going on and say something like, I don’t know, ‘ _Ada, inhatama idkho_ ,’ ‘No, I like papayas,’ that gives you social capital. Plus, the whole group will know your sexual preferences, which leads to more opportunities for wordplay.”

The sexually-private culture of other countries never ceased to frustrate her. How did people stand being so publicly unsullied? Chastity. She would _never_ understand the appeal.

“I’m never going to look at a fruit the same way again.”

“Nope. Or flowers. Or seashells. Or cups of milk. Or… well, you get the idea.” Soon Hawke would be just like her, seeing reproductive organs everywhere she looked. “Right, so the next section is a little trickier. It’ll require you to leverage some of the filthy words you already know. Okay, you’re still with your new friends, and now you want to order everyone a round of drinks because you’re generous like that. The barmaid asks how many you want, and there’s you, me, and five friends, so you say seven, please. Everyone is going to be snickering.”

“Dare I ask why?” Hawke said flatly.

“Because ‘Seven, please,’ is ‘ _Mbaalte, mirizo_.’”

“Which… sounds a lot like…” Hawke closed her eyes, completely exasperated as realization struck. “‘ _Mbaalye, miri izo_.’ ‘Fuck me, I’m wet.’” She put her head in her hands. “Maker help me.” 

Isabela ignored the sudden rush of arousal hearing those words evoked in her. Focus, focus. “Mmhm. The number seven is a fun one. That’s why you’ll probably see lots of graffiti around with seven tally marks. Alright, now that you’re thoroughly blushing, we’ll take a step back and talk about cursing.”

“I’m ready,” Hawke said, despite the flush across her cheeks.

“So, the most basic rule to remember is that Rivain is a matriarchal society. Thus, swearing is all fun and games until you bring someone’s mother into it. I’d suggest avoiding that unless you want to start a fight.”

Except when they tried to bring _her_ mother into it. Then she just laughed. Which often ended up pulling her into a fight, regardless.

Hawke arched an eyebrow. “And if I did want to start a fight?”

“Oh, there’s my girl! If you wanted to start a fight, you would say, ‘ _Zi iyaa itaakh-takur iza-ga ana laha takur-ka iila mbaalye_.’”

Hawke’s face scrunched up as she tried to piece together the words. “Did you just say you were going to... fuck someone’s mother?”

“Yes, but in the most vulgar way possible. I’ll break it down. Repeat after me: ‘ _Zi iyaa itaakh-takur iza_.’” She waited for Hawke to carefully echo it. “Ooh. See, I feel mad already, and I hate my mother, so you know it’s a good one. That means ‘Your mother is a fucking dog.’ _Itaakh_ is sort of an all-purpose profanity. You can slap it onto any word and it’ll spice up your sentence. The harder you say it, the stronger it is. _Takur_ means ‘dog,’ and you don’t want to call someone that in this country. Dogs aren’t nearly as beloved in Rivain as they are in Ferelden. It’s like calling someone a piece of shit in the King’s Tongue.”

Isabela could have sworn she heard Brutus grumble from his spot in the corner of the room.

“Is that what you were arguing about with the innkeeper downstairs?”

“Yes. Having dogs indoors here is extremely unusual. Having dogs where you _sleep_ is unheard of.”

It was a heated discussion, to be sure. Isabela considered turning away, finding somewhere else to stay, but this was the best inn in Llomerryn, likely the only one where they wouldn’t wake up to find all their possessions ransacked in the middle of the night. She could never tell Hawke how much extra she had to pay to keep Brutus with them.

“Well, I appreciate you looking out for Brutus. Wait.” Hawke looked at her with a curious expression, her eyes narrowed in suspicion while a smile played around her lips. “Is _this_ why you’d get so upset whenever someone called me a dog-lord?”

“Maybe.” Yes. Absolutely. She waved a hand, letting the topic drop. “Let’s continue. So we’ve just called someone’s mother a fucking dog. Now we twist the knife: ‘ _Ana laha takur-ka iila mbaalye_.’” She stifled a cringe as Hawke repeated it. “Now you’ve said you’re going to fuck this person’s mother like a dog would.”

It was Hawke’s turn to wince. “Oh my.”

“Uh huh. I think that’s enough sociolinguistic lessons for today. Well, maybe one more.” Isabela leaned in, bringing her lips close to Hawke’s, her voice husky: “ _Ana zi ahur baseo achoro_."

She was close enough to feel Hawke’s breathing pick up, warm air against her mouth as she spoke. “You want to… what my what?”

This bed, Isabela decided, was too neat, too clean, its sheets too nicely folded. They required some tousling. She gently tipped Hawke onto her back then climbed astride her, pinning Hawke’s chest between her thighs.

“I think this needs to be a hands-on learning experience.”

* * *

The clay bowl of _faaswa_ was still bubbling and steaming when Isabela gingerly carried it over from the roadside stand, setting it down on the wooden bench-style table in front of Hawke. Her own bowl followed soon after, along with a small mountain of flatbread. She shook her hands as soon as the bowls left them, wincing at the burn in her fingertips. 

“It’s already hotter than a rage demon’s asshole out here.” Isabela glanced at the man behind the stall’s counter. “I don’t know how he can stand being in front of a boiling pot all day,” she muttered. He took the lid off the pot next to him—more a cauldron, really—and gave the contents a stir and a discerning sniff before throwing a handful of chopped something into it.

It hadn’t rained since their arrival on the island four days prior, and the air was impatient for a storm, so muggy even the sparrows appeared to have difficulty flying, huddling lethargically on the ground, barely stirring to peck at strips of grass. Though the palm tree beside their table was enormous, its shade offered little respite when the heat seemed to emanate from the air itself instead of the sun.

“So, the Rivaini way of handling this kind of weather is… hot stew?” Hawke asked, her raised eyebrow nearly lost under the sweaty hair plastered to her forehead. Isabela worried how Hawke would handle the change in climate, but she needn’t have bothered. Hawke was in remarkably good spirits, accepting the worst Rivain had to offer with aplomb. Though she still seemed especially relieved to sink into a cool bath at the end of the day.

Isabela waved a hand over her _faas,_ as though that would dissipate any of the heat rising from the surface. “Fight fire with fire. Anything that makes you sweat is supposed to help, or so the folklore says.”

“Is _that_ why we’ve been having so much sex since we got here?”

“Well, it makes you feel better, doesn’t it? Certainly makes _me_ feel better,” Isabela said with a wicked grin, running the side of her foot up Hawke’s leg under the table.

“You’ve got me there.” Hawke laughed and batted Isabela’s wandering toes away. She peered into the contents of her bowl, her expression a mix of enthusiastic interest and the slightest hint of trepidation. “What are you feeding me today?”

 _“Faaswa._ I hope you like it, because it’s to Rivain what porridge is to Ferelden.” Tearing off a chunk of bread, she poked around the bowl. “Looks like this one has octopus in it! Exciting!”

“Do we get spoons?” Hawke inquired, apparently unfazed, even delighted, by the prospect of eating something with tentacles and suckers for the first time.

Isabela shook her head. “No, not at these street booths. That’s what the bread’s for. Oh! I almost forgot drinks.” Her thighs were uncomfortably tacky against the wooden bench as she scooted over to the side. _Bloody stupid awful weather._

When she returned, carrying their drinks, she found Hawke with the nearby bottle of Llomerryn red inverted in her hand, fiery hot sauce slowly but steadily pouring out onto what was likely already terrifically spicy _faas._

Isabela’s expression must have looked suitably stupefied, because Hawke corked the bottle and set it back on the table, her own smile one of complete naive innocence.

“What?” she said. “You put hot sauce on everything. Remember when we found a seller at Hightown who imported it? You carried that bottle around with you everywhere. I saw you putting it on _fruit.”_

“I was raised on the stuff. You, my delicate-tongued darling, were not.”

“Bah. It’s a worn-out stereotype, that old ‘Fereldans can’t handle spice’ bit.” Hawke grabbed the cup containing her drink and inspected it. “What is this? Milk?”

“ _Arane_. It’s fermented goat’s milk sweetened with honey. Better when it’s ice cold, but good luck managing that in this weather without a mage.” It was also a classic aid for over-spiced food, but Isabela planned to let Hawke figure that out on her own.

Isabela took the bottle of Llomerryn red for herself, pulling the cork out and carefully sprinkling a few drops onto her _faas_ , making sure Hawke got a good look, letting the contrast in their application speak for itself.

If Hawke had any idea the amount of trouble she was about to be in, she didn’t show it, dunking her bread into the beans with the gusto of one who has no respect for hot peppers. Popping it into her mouth, she chewed thoughtfully for a bit, then swallowed.

“That’s tasty!” Hawke announced, seemingly no worse for wear. “It’s not really _that_ spicy.”

Isabela watched and waited, taking a nibble of her own. The spice hit her like a slap across the face, a sweet familiar burn that left her tongue and lips tingling. Hawke stood no chance.

She could see the moment it hit Hawke, a few bites after the first: the slight pause in her chewing, her hand hovering over the bowl, the sudden flurry of rapid blinking as tears sprang to her eyes. But she maintained her composure, taking a measured sip of the _arane_ , going back in for more of the _faas_. It was oddly endearing, Isabela thought, watching Hawke struggle to hide the pain behind her mask of pride.

“You all right, sweet thing?” Isabela asked, half teasing, half genuinely concerned as the sweat started to pour down Hawke’s beet-red face. She had heard of people occasionally fainting from overwhelming spice, and she wasn’t entirely sure what she would do if Hawke fell victim to her own foolishness.

“Oh yeah. Fantastic,” Hawke said, suppressing a hiccup. She brought the back of her hand across her eyes, wiping away tears mingled with sweat. Her cup of _arane_ was getting dangerously low and her progress on the _faas_ was slowing down exponentially. Isabela knew it wouldn’t be long before Hawke broke.

As she expected, it didn’t take much. One more bite and Hawke was defeated, her hand dropping to the table. “Maker help me,” she gasped. “I’m dying.”

Unable to stop herself, perhaps driven slightly batty by the heat, Isabela burst into a fit of giggles, her forehead thudding against her slightly damp forearm on the table.

“Sure, laugh it up,” Hawke sputtered, no longer bothering to hide her misery. She snatched Isabela’s barely-touched drink and chugged it down, panting as the cup left her lips, trying to breathe out the fumes. Rather dragon-esque, thought Isabela, who was immediately taken by a fresh surge of laughter at the idea.

“You realize you did this to yourself, don’t you?” Isabela finished her bowl and grabbed Hawke’s, bracing herself for the extra dose of hot sauce. “I tried to warn you.”

“I’ve been thoroughly humbled, I promise.” Hawke shoved half a round of bread in her mouth, desperately trying to soak up the spice destroying her tongue.

Isabela smiled. “You know, they say the pain is addictive. Soon you won’t be able to enjoy anything if it doesn’t bite back.” She waggled her eyebrows, hoping the innuendo wasn’t lost, even if _that_ particular subject was likely far, far away from Hawke’s mind at the moment.

Hawke sniffed mightily, an ungraceful and futile attempt to stifle her streaming nose, then coughed. Still, she set her jaw and narrowed her bloodshot eyes, drawing herself upright.

“We’re coming back here tomorrow. I won’t be conquered by a bowl of beans.”

* * *

The Full and By flooded with sailors that night, fresh off a lengthy journey by the looks of the drag in their step and the bags under their eyes. They poured into the bar like hornets from a shaken nest—mostly men, a few women, buzzing with every accent known to Thedas. It was hard to count just how many jacks came through the door, bellying up to the bar to drown themselves in ale; Isabela stopped trying after fifty.

Fortunately, she and Hawke had already claimed their usual table before the rush: the one nestled into the back corner by the Rivaini standard hanging from the wall, the one with the chairs that seemed just a hair comfier than the others, the one that allowed for the best people-watching. And the only table that wasn’t mysteriously sticky.

Even their corner wasn’t safe from invasion, however. Three boisterous hands, two men and a woman, snagged a few spare chairs from about the bar and pulled them up to Isabela’s table with nary a word of petition.

Isabela considered throwing her weight around and giving the trio a verbal flogging. She was, after all, a captain, perhaps even a burgeoning admiral, and these hands were greenhorns, probably spending more time scrubbing decks than anything else. And this was _her_ table.

But the swabbies looked exhausted, and she was feeling generous, so she held back on pulling rank and allowed the sailors to stay and put their mugs of beer on her table. Hopefully she wouldn’t come to regret this sudden fit of hospitality.

“Where do you hail from, sailors?” Isabela asked. They were so fresh she couldn’t tell if they were legitimate seamen or pirates, but she’d know soon enough. Green pirates couldn’t keep their mouths shut about whatever exciting, illicit business they were privy to, even if they only pumped the bilge on the same ship as the _real_ pirates.

“Just came off _Le Vaillant_ , a galleon out of Val Royeaux,” said the woman, a round-faced brunette with a brutal sunburn and a painfully nasal Orlesian accent. 

Isabela brought her tankard to her lips. “That’s quite the trip. Likely close to a month if you had any stops along the way.”

If they picked up on the source of her knowledge, they didn’t show it. “Twenty-seven shit days. None of us had ever been out of the Waking Sea before,” said one of the men, another Orlesian with an unkempt dirty blonde beard and eyes dark as tar pits, as his mates nodded in weary agreement. “And we sailed almost straight through.”

“The only stop we made was at Estwatch,” offered the other man, immediately getting a smack on the back of the head and a “Shush!” from the woman.

Isabela traded glances with Hawke and smiled. Oh, baby pirates. They were probably still eagerly awaiting their complementary parrots and eye patches.

“Estwatch, eh?” Isabela grinned. “And what were three upstanding Orlesian sailors like yourselves doing in a place like that?”

Hawke joined in. “I thought only pirates went to Estwatch. But they don’t look like pirates.”

The bearded man’s blush spread ear to ear as he stammered. “Well, I mean, none of us got to _see_ the cargo, but I’m sure it wasn’t _all_ —”

“Oh, what does it matter?” the second man interrupted. He had a wicked scar across one ruddy, black-stubbled cheek that twitched when he spoke. “We’re in _Llomerryn_ , if you forgot. Shit, these two are probably pirates, too.”

Isabela widened her eyes and gasped. “Us? Pirates? Hawke, can you believe this man would accuse us of such a thing?”

The Orlesian woman pursed her lips, in no mood for games. “All right, enough foolishness. All five of us are pirates, clearly.”

“Oh, I’m not a pirate,” said Hawke. “I still don’t know which end of the ship is which.”

“You’ve got a little bit of pirate in you, I think. Or, I suppose I should say, you’ve _had_ a little bit of pirate in you. Often.” Isabela giggled as Hawke quickly buried her face in her tankard while the Orlesians gave approving nods.

“We’re under Captain Justien,” said the scarred one. “You?”

“The one only she’s under is me,“ Hawke said slyly into her beer; Isabela nudged her with her elbow. “And I’m no captain.”

“But you _are_ a pirate, no? Or are you just bullshitting us?” 

Though stringing them along was amusing, Isabela decided to stop beating around the bush. “I _am_ a pirate.” She paused for a beat. “And a captain.” And maybe she would rub some salt in, even if it wasn’t technically true anymore: “With the Felicísima Armada.”

“ _Putain de merde_ ,” the brunette muttered, pressing her knuckles to her forehead. “You just had to run your mouth, didn’t you, Denis?”

“An Armada captain?” asked Denis, rubbing a hand over his stubble, suddenly humbled.

The blonde looked to the woman at his left and Denis to his right, brow creased with worry. “We’re supposed to ask her about something, right? If she’s a captain? But I can’t remember.”

“I think we’re supposed to ask her about her ship,” said the woman. “We have to get everyone in the bar to do it, though.”

Denis took a few gulps of his beer, apparently in need of courage. “I’ll do it.” He angled his head away from their table, toward the middle of the bar, and raised his voice. “So, you’re a captain, are you? You know what that means!”

Nothing happened. Not a head turned. The other patrons of the Full and By, if they even heard Denis’s call over the din of a hundred rowdy sailors, could not be bothered to leave their cups for the briefest of moments. Isabela sipped her ale and watched Denis attempt to sink underneath the table.

“Maker, that was pathetic,” Hawke groaned, setting her drink down. She stood up, cupped her hands around her mouth, and bellowed, shattering the clamor like a delinquent’s rock through a window: “Aye, Captain, you best tell the boys about your ship!”

A chorus of curious mutters grew from the abrupt silence. One of the men at the bar grabbed his tankard by the handle and whacked it against the bartop, a dull thud of wood on wood. This was echoed by the man next to him, then the one next to him, until the whole inn filled with the bedlam of it, a bucket of marbles dumped down a flight of stairs.

Isabela got to her feet, embraced by rousing cheers and whistles. She missed this terribly, she realized. This adulation, the expectation of a thrilling tale. The way Hawke looked at her—proud grin and sinful eyes.

“The story I’m about to tell you dogs is absolutely real and true,” she announced, strutting to the center of the bar, all those faces now turned to her. “Because the truth is far wilder than any yarn I could spin.

“But to know the story of Second Chance, you need to know the fate of Siren’s Call, the ship I manned before her, when this island knew me as Captain Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas.”

A few murmurs spread throughout the crowd. Her reputation, it seemed, was not entirely dead. She could stoke the still-glowing embers buried in the ashes of her prestige.

“I terrorized the coasts on behalf of the Armada, north to south, Nocen to Waking Seas. And as my notoriety grew, so did the risks.” She glanced around the bar for any lurking Qunari and was relieved to find none. “The late Castillon Escriva, big dog of the Raiders and a mighty prick besides, had the score of a lifetime for me and the Siren’s Call. Intercept a little deal between the Orlesians and the Qunari, steal the Qunari’s holy book, sell it to the Tevinters, profit. Who could resist?”

The murmurs increased to a drone, and Isabela caught snatches of it: “I thought that was a hoax.” “That was _her?_ ” “She’s full of shit.” “No, I believe her.”

They could doubt her if they wanted. The name of the game wasn’t persuasion. It was entertainment, and she was winning, owning the room as she sauntered around it.

“The promise of more gold than my ship could carry was too good to pass up. I sailed to Val Royeaux and swiped the book from right under their noses.” The trio of Orlesians exchanged glances, mouths agape. “The Qunari, however, are more clever than they look. They gave chase, shooting fiery iron from their deck, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. I saw a raging storm ahead and took us straight into it. What was one more risk, after all? Aye, but the Waking Sea is a cruel mistress. The Siren’s Call went side-on into the waves and slammed right into the lee shore. I lost my ship, I lost my crew, I lost the book. I had nothing but the clothes on my back and a whole mess of anger. And the worst of it? I was stuck in _Kirkwall_.”

A host of sentimental groans issued from the patrons. To be trapped in Kirkwall was a fate one would not wish on their worst enemy. Even before half the city was covered in exploded Chantry pieces.

“Castillon, of course, would not stand such an embarrassment. For six years, he hounded my every step, sending his lackeys to hunt me down, leaving threatening letters promising revenge and the sort of tortures that even your worst nightmares couldn’t conceive of.

“Until, one day, Castillon and his ship came sailing to Kirkwall.” She let the sentence marinate in the ale-soaked air, let the realization—then the suspense—build, dragging her fingertips along tabletops and shoulders as she paced across the floor.

“He was ready to come fetch me himself, bring me back to the Armada for horrors none of you could possibly imagine. But I got the jump on him first.”

She pulled one of her daggers from its sheath and kissed the blade, its runes warm against her lips.

“I’ll tell you lot this,” she said, voice just above a whisper. The bar went silent as a grave as every man and woman leaned forward. “There was no better feeling than sinking this knife into his soft, pale throat and watching him bleed out at my feet.”

Isabela could almost feel the collective shudder ripple across the room.

“I killed his crew and claimed his ship for my own. I scraped her old name off the hull and painted ‘Second Chance’ upon her, for all the ones I’ve been blessed with in this savage life. 

“I knew two things when I landed in that blighted city. I wanted a ship and I wanted Castillon dead.” Slamming her dagger back into its sheath, she snatched a nearby mug to wet her throat. Its owner, transfixed by her tale, didn’t seem to mind. She set the tankard down, licked her lips, and smiled.

“And I _always_ get what I want.”

Her self-satisfied laugh was lost in the shouting and stamping and clapping as she bowed. A good story could be worth more than a chest of gold, she knew. If the knaves in the Full and By believed her, she might end up with a few more ships to her fleet by the time they left the island.

Sliding back into her chair, Isabela downed the rest of her beer with great enthusiasm. As she turned to ask Hawke how it went, Hawke’s mouth was already at her ear, voice low and heavy with need. 

“You. Me. Bed. _Now_.”

And then Hawke’s hand slid so far up the inside of Isabela’s thigh under the table she had to stifle a gasp, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Well, you three have a lovely rest of your evening,” Isabela said to the Orlesians, still gaping at her like dead fish. “Good sailing out there.”

She let Hawke nearly drag her up the stairs, all wandering hands and breathy promises, because Isabela wasn’t the only woman who always got what she wanted.

* * *

“If the Armada finds out I’ve done this, they’ll cut off my fuckin’ hands.”

Her tattoo artist, a wildly colorful former Rivaini raider named Stitches—an apt, if unoriginal pseudonym for a healer, Isabela always thought—rubbed his hand over his heavily-inked bald head, glistening in the late afternoon heat. Or perhaps it was merely her request causing him to sweat.

Isabela stood firm. “And if the Armada finds out _I’ve_ done this, they’ll cut off far more than my hands, and far more slowly. It’s either this or I have someone carve it out of my skin. I know which I’d prefer.” 

“I thought you were crazy when you had me do that scarab on your leg. Or that piercing in your…” He gestured at Isabela’s crotch. “Lady bits. But this?”

She understood his trepidation, irritating though it was. Stitches was never a captain; to him, her tattoo meant something. The blindfolded skull was supposed to be a permanent fixture, a mark of experience as well as a warning sign to one’s enemies. Armada captains were a disparate bunch. The only thing two captains could agree on was that a third captain was wrong. But the tattoo served as a source of unity, of pride, and mutilating it or covering it up was considered the worst form of mutiny. “The life or the knife,” was a common saying among the Raiders, “the life” being piracy, which was seemingly inextricable from the Armada once the ink was placed.

But Isabela was determined to separate the two, even if it meant risking the knife.

“Never said I wasn’t crazy. Being crazy is what got this shit on my back in the first place.” She touched the pouch at her belt containing a number of gold coins. “I’ve told you how much I’m willing to pay, and I swear what you do will not leave this room. Take it or leave it.”

Stitches eyed his tattooing supplies, mouth drawn tight, and she knew she had him.

“I can’t see how the benefits outweigh the risks for you, but fine.” He sighed. “Your funeral. Turn ‘round and let me see what I’m working with. Or does your friend here want to go first?” 

Hawke, watching their debate from a chair nearby, crossed her legs and leaned back. “I’ll go after,” she said cooly, though Isabela could spot the beginnings of nerves twitching in Hawke’s fingers from a mile away. Hawke was no stranger to pain—the scars decorating her skin could attest to that—but deliberate pain was a different beast. Though Isabela had done her best to explain the process, “it just feels like someone digging around in your skin with a needle” likely did little assuage Hawke’s hesitation.

Fortunately, Stitches was a mage as well as a damn good artist, and a little bit of curative magic went a long way in mitigating some of the pain inherent in the process. More importantly, it reduced the healing time and risk of infection after the work was done.

Turning away from Stitches, she pulled off her shirt, throwing a quick wink at Hawke—who offered an eye-roll and a smirk in response—before easing onto her stomach on his work station, a simple low table covered by a sheet. Not the most comfortable position, but the tattoo itself was barely larger than her fist; it shouldn’t take more than a few hours.

“Hrm,” Stitches grunted from above her, kneeling down and sweeping her hair to the side to get a closer look. “You’re lucky that red blindfold is there. It’d be a lot harder to work with big black eye sockets. Still, the lines on this are thick. Something I can do a lot of shading with would be best. Do you have any ideas of your own, or do you want me to give it my best shot?”

Of course she had ideas of her own. She’d had the better part of the last decade to think about it. The need for a cover-up limited her options, but she had spent a lot of time considering those limitations. Something black and red and vaguely skull-shaped. Something to represent new growth. Something far, far away from what the Armada had become to her.

“I was thinking of a rose.”

Stitches said nothing, only tapped his fingertips around her shoulder, apparently determining his plan of attack. Then came a steady pressure from the side of his hand along with a light tickling as he used a small brush and ink to sketch out a design before committing to the needle.

“I think this will work,” he said with an air of disbelief, like he still couldn’t believe Isabela had talked him into performing such a blasphemy. “You know what she likes, don’t you?” he asked Hawke. “Come over here and take a look.”

Hawke got to her feet and walked to Isabela’s side, leaning over her back. “That’s going to be gorgeous,” she said. The joy in Hawke’s voice was obvious, and soon Isabela saw it for herself as Hawke walked to the front of the table and crouched down so they were face to face.

“If it’s ugly, _you’re_ the one who’s going to have to look at it, not me,” Isabela informed her, to which Stitches snorted his disagreement.

Hawke’s smile slowly faded as she watched Stitches set up his tools. “Do you need me to hold your hand?” she asked, completely serious.

The earnest worry crinkling Hawke’s brow was adorable. “I’m not going into labor, you goose.” Isabela couldn’t help a giggle from sneaking out. _What a horrifying thought_. “It’s just a tattoo.”

“Well, he just pulled out this big stick with a sharp bit stuck in it, so you’ll forgive me if I get a little concerned.”

“I bet you get concerned whenever a man pulls a big stick out.”

Stitches apparently had heard enough banter. “All right lovebirds, break it up. I’m not responsible for any shitty lines if you’re all giggly and wiggly.”

Hawke, properly chastised, retreated to her chair, though she dragged it closer to observe the process.

Isabela took a deep breath while she still had the chance, trying to settle her heart thudding against the tabletop. No matter how many she got, she was always apprehensive before a new tattoo, and this one came with more than the promise of physical discomfort. Not only was this cover-up an affront to the Armada, it would also remove a number of benefits. She would have no ship-rights if she lost Second Chance, no protection, no automatic assumption of seaworthiness. She would have Dice and his crew and whatever decade-old scraps of reputation she had left to grab, and even those largely came from her connection to the Raiders. Everything else would need to be built from the ground up. It was both a thrilling and a terrifying revelation.

A light pinprick as Stitches set the needle to her skin, then a sharper one paired with a clacking noise as he drove the ink in. The pain and clacks blurred into a steady line with each hit of the metal driving rod against the bamboo stick holding the needle. Occasionally, this would cease as Stitches paused to dip the needle in more ink, or wipe blood from her skin, or thread healing magic through her flesh, cool and damp and writhing, like worms tunneling through her back. Isabela wasn’t sure which sensation was more uncomfortable.

Once Hawke realized the procedure wasn’t nearly as horrifying as she assumed, she started peppering Stitches with questions. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to mind multitasking. She asked him what the ink was made from (“the black is from burnt wood and the red and purple are from these crushed-up insect eggs—no, really!”), the worst tattoo he ever did (“a heart on a bloke’s asshole, so he could tell people to ‘eat his heart out.’ Fuckin’ pirates.”), and what tattoos he was sick of doing (“Anchors! Fuckin’ anchors! Next mate who asks me for a fuckin’ anchor gets tied to one and thrown in the fuckin’ ocean!”).

Eventually, he opened up about his past as a Raider. A Llomerryn native, he followed in the footsteps of his father and older brother, both fishermen, learning to sail when he could barely walk. When his magic began to manifest at the age of eight, he apprenticed with the local seers (“that old woman scared me to death!”), choosing to focus on creation magic, because, in his words, he was a “kind, soft boy who just wanted to help.”

“Not the sort of boy who tends to become a pirate,” Isabela said, but then she thought of Bones, another kind, soft boy who just wanted to help. It took all types. If you didn’t feel like you fit in anywhere else in this bloody world, piracy would give you a home and a family where you had none before. She had seen it time and time again, lived its truth herself.

“True enough,” Stitches acknowledged, “and that’s eventually why I quit, but at the time, I was the most wanted hand on every ship, no matter how green I was to the life. And that’s quite a lovin’ stroke to a young man’s ego. So I bounced from ship to ship, stitching up cuts and pulling arrowheads out of blokes. Hence the name. Eventually ended up on Ianto’s flagship, the Bloody Widow.”

“Ianto’s one of the big boys of the Armada, and an absolute monster,” Isabela explained to Hawke. “He makes Castillon look like a newborn pup.”

“‘Absolute monster’ is too kind. The man’s a right fuckin’ prick, and you can tell him I said so. I stayed on with him too long. I told myself it was alright, because I was just the healer. I didn’t do the torturin’ or the slavin’. Shit, I kept the slaves Ianto took from dying on the bleedin’ boat. But all the rationalizing in the world can only get you so far in a crew like that.”

“So you left?” Hawke asked, as Isabela tried desperately to focus on the pain of the needle instead of her own brief accidental foray into the slave trade with Devon.

“Well, you don’t just ‘leave’ Ianto’s ship. Stupid me, I tried to reason with him, said my heart wasn’t in it. But you see, being a valuable sailor goes both ways, and Ianto didn’t want to let go of the man who kept his mates from bleeding out or losing limbs. That, and the man is petty as a little girl. He took my wanting to leave as a personal affront.

“He sicced his boys on me. Men I’d worked with for years, some of them I’d revived from the brink of death. Now they’re suddenly ready to kill me just because I’d crossed the captain. What was I to do? I was no fighter. I had naught on me but my rigging knife.” More cold trickles wound through her flesh as he stopped to heal. “Well, I panicked and sent a jet of fire out of my hands. You might not be aware, but ships and fire are not friends.”

Isabela fought the urge to gasp. “ _You’re_ what sank the Bloody Widow? I heard it was just a grease fire in the galley!”

“No, that was yours truly. I leapt overboard and managed to make it to shore as the whole fuckin’ ship went up in flames behind me. Fortunately for me, we weren’t too far out to sea. So now I’m here, hiding from Ianto, healing folks who can’t make it to the seer and, apparently, putting cursed tattoos on women like Captain Isabela.”

He continued in silence for a while longer, clacking and wiping and healing, until the pain and the sound became almost meditative, a singular fixation. 

And then, it was done. Stitches stood up and swore as his back cracked. “Covered up well, I think,” he announced, pride buoying his voice.

Isabela stretched, still on the table, an ache already beginning to settle into her shoulder blade despite the healing magic. “I think my tits fell asleep. Well, Hawke, what do you think? Did he do a good job or do I have to kill him?”

“It’s beautiful,” Hawke said. “I think it suits you.” When it was all over, she finally decided to hold Isabela’s hand.

“Don’t get up yet,” Stitches called from somewhere across the room. “I need to get a poultice on it. Gods know you pirates are filthy creatures. I won’t have my hard work getting all infected and looking like that monstrosity on your hip.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that monstrosity was done by a very lovely woman in Val Chevin who was under extreme duress,” Isabela informed him. “And it looked just fine until it got all crusty and leaky.”

“Amateurs,” Stitches grumbled from above her. 

Then a very cold and very wet something was pressed into her shoulder, and she flinched, goosebumps erupting along her arms. “Shit, why does that have to be so horribly cold?”

“To keep the swelling down, blasted woman.” She felt Stitches tacking something sticky around the poultice. “Alright, it’s secured. It’ll fall off on its own in about a day. You can get up and put your shirt back on. Try to avoid touching it, keep it clean, blah blah blah. I know you won’t listen to me, anyway.”

Isabela rose from the table, working the stiffness out of her joints. It was done. Her last tie to the Felicísima Armada had been severed. And with it, she erased years of her history. She was still Captain Isabela, Queen of the Eastern Seas, but now she had no proof. But if she earned it the first time, she could earn it again, this time with the benefit of age and wisdom. Theoretically speaking. She certainly hoped she was wiser than she was at twenty-one.

“What about you, southerner?” Stitches asked, turning to Hawke. “If you want something small, I can fit you in this afternoon, if you give me a chance to stretch my fingers and get something to drink.”

Hawke, no longer intimidated by the thought of needles in her skin, spoke so readily and with such confidence it was as though she’d had her design planned out for years. And when Isabela realized what it was, her heart simultaneously swelled with affection and sank with grief, like a balloon filled with air and then popped.

“I’d like four small birds.”

* * *

“So what do seers do, exactly?” Hawke asked as they walked toward the edge of the island, the noise of the city fading to a comfortable buzz behind them.

Isabela considered the question; it wasn’t something she had ever thought to numerate before. “Well, they do… a little of everything, really. They’re mages like any other in Thedas when you get down to it, but they train their own apprentices without the Chantry’s influence. Except in Dairsmuid, I guess. But they speak for their respective communities. People will go to them if they’re sick, or in dire need of advice, having babies, or what have you. But I’ve only seen them for readings.”

“Readings?”

“Yes, it’s… I don’t really know how it works, or even exactly what it is, but they sort of... channel spirits through them to look into your soul or something, I don’t know. They call it ‘the Sight.’” Isabela caught Hawke’s skeptical expression and laughed. “It’s not as scary as it sounds. They can see things about you that you wouldn’t be able to find out on your own.”

“And you’ve had this done before?” Hawke asked.

“Twice. Once when I was young, because my mother thought the seers could turn me into the obedient daughter she wanted.” Isabela’s smile was a bitter one. “You can imagine how well that went. Then a second time when I was in Llomerryn last year.”

“What did they see?”

“Honestly, I think they’ll be able to explain it better than I could.”

The seer’s abode was once again strangely devoid of occupants, save for Naya, who rose to her feet as soon as the curtain door dropped from Isabela’s hand. Isabela was beginning to think the seers knew when she was coming and shooed other visitors out on purpose.

“ _Shanerrat_ ,” Naya greeted, then switched to the King’s Tongue when she saw Hawke duck inside the door after Isabela. “I wondered when I would see you again. Any seer could feel when you two landed on the island.” 

Her accent was not nearly as strong as Isabela expected—a likely side-effect of Llomerryn’s growing multiculturalism. It lended her words a certain strength, each syllable isolated and rounded, like pebbles in a riverbed. Even in the dim candlelight, Isabela could see Naya had finished her apprenticeship since the last visit; the dark blue ink tattooed in curves and dots across her chin and forehead marked her as a full seer.

Isabela bowed, Hawke following her lead. “Is your grandmother here, _alye_?” she asked, looking around the hut for the old woman.

“No, she passed several months ago,” Naya replied, and though her face was stoic, her tone grew slightly downcast. “It was her time.”

“ _Maenmuo zu hare_ ,” Isabela offered, a sentiment Naya repeated.

“Oh, I imagine the spirits will have no qualms in guarding her.” She gave a small, melancholy smile. “A pity. I am sure she would find Hawke an interesting one to read. But that is why you are here, yes?”

Hawke glanced at Isabela, then back at Naya. “Did Isabela tell you my name?”

“In a way, yes.” Naya’s smile grew, taking on a mischievous edge. “She did not speak it aloud, but there was no need. Her spirit wears your name like a second skin. We could not take a step within her without hearing the echoes of it.”

Isabela could feel Hawke staring at her. Visiting the seers was always an exercise in vulnerability, but it felt so much more damning having Hawke there with her. Little wonder she could never bring herself to share what they had found in her. How did you tell someone they were written across your soul?

“I’m not entirely sure what that means,” Hawke ventured, gaze never leaving the side of Isabela’s head.

“She did not tell you? Ah, but perhaps it is better to show you.” Naya motioned for Hawke to come further into the room. When Isabela hesitated to follow, Naya added, “You may stay, Isabela, but I must ask that you maintain a distance. The hurricane will be drawn to us, and channeling both of you at the same time would be… difficult,” she finished with a grim laugh.

Isabela retreated to the far wall as Naya took Hawke’s hands in her own. Despite Isabela’s own experience with the process, she felt apprehensive to see it from the other side. And Hawke seemed nervous, too, shifting her weight from foot to foot, glancing behind her to make sure Isabela was still there.

“There is magic in your blood, is there not?” Naya asked, a likely attempt at distraction even as the air around them began to change. “You do not command it yourself, but it is there.”

“My father and sister are both mages,” Hawke said. The air stirred into a breeze, fluttering across Isabela’s skin like butterfly wings, raising the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck.

“Strong ones, too. Good, that makes this easier. Close your eyes, _enwan._ Remember to breathe.”

As Hawke closed her eyes, Naya opened hers, flooded with a bright blue light. It simultaneously poured out of her and back in, a force both within and without. Swirling to the top of the hut, it branched, a hundred glowing inlets hunting for something to flow into.

There came a tugging sensation just above Isabela’s navel, like something inside her was being reeled in to the center of the room. She fought it, holding her place by the wall, until the channels of light swept by her, trailing over Hawke instead, searching.

“So many walls here,” came Naya’s voice, but it wasn’t her, not entirely. There were multiple layers woven throughout, including one that resembled the old seer’s. Was she here, Isabela wondered, somewhere in the rivulets? “The cliffs we saw before,” the voices continued. “They are steep. I cannot find a path.”

Isabela could see Hawke battling the intrusion from across the room, her jaw clenched, posture rigid. The blue light wound around her, but it hovered above the surface of her skin in an agitated swirl, unable to approach. And though Isabela wanted nothing more than to reach out—in both the physical and spiritual planes—she heeded Naya’s warning and remained still.

The energy in the room grew more disturbed as it failed to find access. Candles flickered and the air became heavy, charged, like the balance between the material world and the Fade was tipping too far in the wrong direction. A line formed between Naya’s brows, the only indication of her struggle to maintain her connection to the spirit. 

Isabela decided to step in. Maybe she couldn’t calm Hawke by touch, but some spoken reassurance might work.

“Hawke,” Isabela said, cutting through the energy surrounding them. “You can let her in. She’s not going to hurt you.”

Upon hearing Isabela’s voice, the tension in Hawke’s body eased, as did the spirit channel, now ghosting over her skin like a lover’s touch. The pull from Isabela’s side likewise relaxed, a riptide to a placid lake.

“Here we are,” said Naya, the relief evident in all her voices. “A mountain, indeed. So different from Isabela’s hurricane, but just as powerful. And so much pain here, like hers. Terrible losses. But you do not lash out. You keep it in. You build walls around it.”

Though it was hard to see through the blur of candles and smoke and blue, Isabela spotted tears slipping from beneath Hawke’s closed eyelids. Her heart clenched at the sight, and the tendrils of energy responded, flickering across Hawke’s face as if to brush those tears away.

A whisper danced across the back of Isabela’s mind as Naya spoke: “Of course, she is here as well, storming through those walls of yours. But she is gentle with your heart, yes?”

The light pulsed like a heartbeat, like breathing.

“There is balance, despite the broken pieces. It is a rare thing, what you have. The mountain seeks one strong enough to move her. The hurricane seeks one strong enough to hold her. I understand now what my grandmother meant.”

The whisper flowed into an echo of a quiet laugh, water through sand. 

“Hawke,” Naya said, her grandmother said, a dozen other voices said. “You have your father’s spirit. It is one that endures. It will not break. It wants to fight until it has no body left to inhabit. But you do not need to keep fighting. Allow yourself to be. Rest, _enwan_.”

As Naya eased the current back to the Fade, the air stilled, and Hawke let go of Naya’s hands, dropping to one knee, trembling.

Isabela crossed the room and pulled Hawke to her, even as the lingering magic rippled through her body, reverberting between them. The reading left Hawke weak and emotionally raw, clinging to Isabela like wet clothes to skin. It wasn’t until the last of the whispers and light fully retreated that Isabela could help Hawke back to her feet.

“Are you all right?” Isabela asked.

“Yes, I think so. That was… certainly not like anything else I’ve ever felt in my life.” Hawke shivered. “I heard my father’s voice.”

“It is no surprise. He was a mage,” Naya replied. She seemed at ease, not nearly as weary as when she read Isabela the last time. “His soul would have been drawn here by the connection, even if he cannot fully pass through the Veil.” 

“But I’m still not sure I understand. What is this about mountains and hurricanes?”

“You were raised by the Chantry, yes?” Naya said, more a statement than a question. “It says that your Maker created all we know on either side of the Veil. But Rivaini who keep the old ways do not believe in a singular god like your Maker. The line between our world and theirs is not as stark as it is in the south, so you have just witnessed. Our gods, your mortal soul, and the spirits are the same, all parts of the universe. They each manifest their own reality. 

“The Chantry believes that spirits were once men, and that they long to be men once more. That they covet our emotions, drawn to them like moths to flame, and that our virtues and sins determine whether they be spirits or demons. And perhaps that is true, but it is not the full truth. There are countless more spirits of nature that care nothing for the whims of man. Except, of course,” she finished with a knowing smile, “when they do.”

“But why would any spirits be interested in us?” Hawke asked, puzzled. “I’m no mage, nor is Isabela, unless she’s done an excellent job hiding it.”

“A good question, and one I do not know the answer to,” admitted Naya. “It is said in this land that the soul enters the body at birth. Perhaps the spirits are pulled by this process? It is hard to say. Nature spirits have wills of their own, different to other spirits. Their desires, should they exist, are unknowable. As seers, we feel their presence following you, but that is all.”

“Does it mean anything? What does it do?”

“There are different opinions. Some say it merely shapes the personality. Others say the actions of the spirit-touched have a greater influence. Some claim the spirits are guardians, some claim they are saboteurs. Perhaps it is nothing at all,” she chuckled, shrugging, a charming incongruity for a woman so wise and powerful. “But I know what I see. Within you,” she nodded at Hawke, “ _aankiri nkumil_. An endless cliff of granite towering above the water, leading to a mountain range stretching to the heavens. And you,” she turned to Isabela, “ _ekhaimmiri._ Howling winds and blinding rain... waves that could devour this island, the wreckage of a thousand ships. And when I read my grandmother before she passed to the Beyond, I saw a mighty river... its rapids, its waterfalls... reaching from one end of the world to the other: _osomiri_.”

It was impossible, but as Naya spoke, Isabela swore she could feel it: a screaming fury within her, threatening to burst from her chest and swallow the world whole. Clouds black as soot, rain lashing like needles. The keening shriek of wind and the thunderous crash of waves. Wood creaking, splitting. The sound, the pressure of it built to a crescendo, bolstered by whatever magic persisted around her, until she thought she might be swept away by her own spirit.

And then her eyes met Hawke’s, and the storm broke. Isabela apparently wasn’t the only one who felt something; the inside corners of Hawke’s eyebrows pitched up, her mouth dropping open slightly, like she too could feel the sunlight through the clouds, the mammoth waves dissolving gentle against the cliffs, the gales weakened to a balmy breeze. There it was. Balance.

Magic, spirits… these things were endemic to Rivain, embroidered into the tapestry of her homeland, but Isabela would be damned if she ever understood any of it. She knew what she felt with Hawke, and that was enough. If any supernatural beings wanted to get involved, they had better know it, too.

Naya had a quiet smile when Isabela could face her again; no doubt she was fully aware of what had just transpired. “I would not be concerned,” she said. “These spirits are not drawn to the weak-minded. I do not believe they can control you.”

Hawke fidgeted with the bracelet around her wrist. “I have… one more question, if that’s all right.” When Naya nodded, Hawke asked, “My father, is he… at peace?” She seemed on the edge of a flinch, as though fearing the answer.

The seer’s response was serene, confident. “He is. As is the rest of your family. It is often difficult to discern the will of a spirit across the Veil, but his pride for you is unmistakable.”

Hawke’s eyes filled anew with fresh tears, quickly hidden from sight as she bowed. “ _Daalkile._ This has been an unforgettable experience.”

As they left the seer’s abode, Hawke looped her arm through Isabela’s, steering her back toward the inn.

“I think I’m in need of a nap after that,” Hawke said, and Isabela understood.

They meandered through the avenues, past filled clotheslines standing defiant in the face of ash-colored clouds on the horizon. Past massive ferns thriving in the rainy season, with their shiny green fronds and stems as tall as a man. Past the occasional chicken scratching in the dirt and stray dogs peering out at them from between buildings, intrigued but too street-savvy to approach. Even from this distance, the dull roar of _Anahia_ could be heard, serving as a backdrop to the playful shrieks of children running through the streets.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my visit to the seers before,” Isabela said, as the outskirts where Naya lived faded behind them and the bulk of the city proper began.

Hawke stopped to kick a wandering ball back to a girl several houses down the path. “There’s no need to apologize. I’m not sure I would’ve believed you anyway. How do you even describe something like that?”

“You can’t. It’s just a mess of feelings and sensations.” Isabela ran her hand over one of the ferns, the last drops of morning rain hiding in the leaves wetting her palm. “And you. There was a lot of you in there. Which was not exactly the sort of thing I wanted to hear when I had spent the last few years trying to forget you.”

“Did you feel it, then? When it was supposed to be over, but then I looked at you, and it was…” Hawke trailed off, at a loss for words.

There was no need to articulate it. “Yes,” Isabela said. “I definitely felt that.”

When they arrived back at the inn, feet dragging lead-heavy up the stairs to their room, Hawke immediately collapsed into bed next to Brutus. She was asleep scant minutes later, apparently exhausted by the afternoon’s spiritual explorations.

Isabela, however, was not quite ready to join them. Her mind was too busy chasing thoughts of cliffs and hurricanes and their intersections. _Hold and cherish those whose natures are strong enough to match your own_. She remembered how difficult it was to accept the old seer’s words. How hard she tried to fight against it. How she sat at the bar for hours that night, hoping enough whiskey would wash it out of her head, let it pour right out her ears.

Matters of the soul, of course, were not so easily removed.

Taking out a piece of parchment, she retraced part of a letter she wrote during her last travels in Rivain. One of the dozens and dozens she never could bring herself to send. The one she fed to the _ihe_ brazier. But this note would be safe from flames and destruction. It would be left on the desk, waiting patiently to be read by a woman who could now understand every word of it.

_Ni aankiri nkumil ize  
Ni obi ize_

* * *

It was said Llomerryn’s rainy season was tempered, a pale imitation of the torrents that hammered places like Seere or Kont-arr for half the year. When northerners came to Llomerryn between Justinian and Firstfall, they laughed at the near-daily storms slamming into the island, flooding the streets and snapping palm trees like over-tightened lyre strings. Where they come from, they’d boast, you don’t look up for fear of drowning. They’d say the hurricanes that hit Llomerryn were weak, expending most of their fury in the north where they were born, scraping down the eastern coast of Rivain like a whetstone before finally striking the island, all bark and no bite.

As far as Isabela was concerned, hot was hot and wet was wet, and the storm relentlessly pounding the Full and By for the past day and a half qualified as part of a proper rainy season, the last gasp of Firstfall before the dry season began and Llomerryn retook its claim of island paradise. The natives and long-term visitors of the island would emerge from their shelters, sweep up the detritus, patch their roofs, and prepare for a new sort of flood: tourists. But for now, Isabela and Hawke hid inside their room as the clouds unleashed gouts and gouts of rain, a heavenly arterial spray, until it felt like the sea and the sky had traded places. Lightning split the ashen sky in two, evanescent lavender flashes, followed by thunder that shook the walls, the bellows of an angry god.

Not that Isabela minded, really. The rain made for a convenient excuse to stay in bed, and after a month of near-constant exploration and adventures, there was something uniquely pleasant about escaping the rest of the world, tangled up in sheets and bare skin, hours of sleepy kisses as droplets tick-tapped against the windows.

Time had lost all semblance of meaning as the sun’s arc across the sky became blocked by opaque clouds, leaving their room in perpetual twilight. If Isabela had to guess, she would assume it was late afternoon. They’d awoken once earlier, throwing on clothes just long enough to stumble downstairs in a groggy haze for food. Then the clothes were off again, and they mustered the energy for a quick bath before retreating back to bed. Isabela’s hair was still slightly damp. 

Brutus had a better internal clock than they did, always finding his way to the bar for dinner at the same time each day. Despite their initial apprehension, the Full and By’s staff had developed a begrudging tolerance for the mabari, sneaking him scraps of fish after the dinner service was through. To his credit, Brutus was being remarkably polite, forgoing his usual boisterous spinning and barking and body-slamming for something more quiet and dignified. Isabela would even dare to call it feline-esque, though maybe not to his face. Still, she and Hawke made sure to get him out for frequent trips to the beach, where he could let loose in a more gleefully canine fashion, chasing birds and sniffing around puddles left over from high tide. Keeping well clear of the water, of course.

The mabari wasn’t in his usual spot, in the corner of the room on a pile of blankets Isabela had filched from the washroom. And he obviously wasn’t in his _other_ usual spot: curled into a ball in the middle of the mattress, pretending to be compact while taking up enough space to force the two women right to the edge of the bed. His absence meant it was dinnertime, closer to evening than afternoon. Which meant they had wasted nearly the whole day in bed. No, not wasted, Isabela corrected herself. It didn’t feel like a waste. They had all the time in the world, and if this was how the grains in the hourglass would slip by, while she was here in Hawke’s arms, it was time well-spent.

“Do you s’pose we should move at some point today?” Hawke asked, her head nestled under Isabela’s chin, their arms and legs entangled, giving absolutely no indication that she wished to move. “I’ve never felt so lazy in my life.”

Isabela traced patterns with her fingertips over and between Hawke’s shoulder blades. “Sometimes it’s nice to be lazy. Besides, it’s still raining. It’s not like we can go anywhere.”

“Mm,” Hawke mumbled, a soft hum against Isabela’s neck. “True.”

The rain lent the air a merciful chill, but Hawke was warm, always warm, like the hot springs that bubbled up between crags in the Frostbacks. Isabela pulled Hawke closer to her, let that warmth envelop her, let it wash away any lingering anxieties like the droplets streaking down the glass windows. 

Hawke wiggled out from the embrace, pressed her forehead against Isabela’s chin. “I’m going to fall asleep again if you hold me like that.”

“Then come here,” Isabela said, placing two fingers under Hawke’s chin, tilting her head up for a kiss, the hundredth, the thousandth one that day. Hawke’s lips were every bit as warm as the rest of her.

Shifting up until she was level with Isabela, their heads both occupying the same pillow, Hawke eased into the kiss, deepened it, and she certainly didn’t seem interested in napping the rest of the waning daylight hours away. 

Isabela wasn’t, either. She lifted her head off the pillow, angled her body over Hawke’s, slid her tongue over Hawke’s upper lip. Then lightning flashed white behind her closed eyelids, and a crack of thunder followed it before she had time to brace, sounding so much like the Qunari dreadnaught’s cannons. She flinched.

Hawke smiled and kissed her again, softer this time, and again, until Isabela was no longer on the deck of the Siren’s Call, until the storm was safely outside their room instead of roiling in front of her ship.

“You okay?” Hawke asked.

“I am, promise.” Isabela sighed. “Can’t believe I get spooked by a little thunder. Like I’m five years old again, hiding under the bed.”

“It makes sense. Storms haven’t been especially kind to you.”

Isabela let Hawke support her weight, pressed chest to chest. She kissed Hawke’s cheek. “You’re too good to me.”

“You deserve it.”

“Oh, stop. You’re such a sap,” Isabela said, but she hoped Hawke wouldn’t stop, would never stop saying the sweetest things to her, so sincere it made the back of her eyes ache with nascent tears.

She got up to close the door, left ajar from Brutus’s earlier departure. The other patrons of the Full and By weren’t a nosy bunch, but she wasn’t interested in tempting fate, not with her and Hawke lounging about sans clothes all day long. Brutus knew to bump the door with his snout and grumble when he was back from dinner. When she returned to the side of the bed, she paused, staring at Hawke, her bare toes flexing against the smooth sandy-brown wood of the floor. 

Hawke looked back at her, in perfect repose against blue-steel sheets, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Utterly serene. It was hard to believe this was the same woman being ground to dust under Kirkwall’s heel just a few months before. The ocean had freed her. The island had freed her. Maybe, Isabela could allow herself to admit, love had freed Hawke, too. Hawke was the sort of woman whose heart needed someone to love, someone to share all that locked-up affection with lest it back up and overflow, drowning her. Hawke’s heart could be shattered to pieces and it would limp on, bruised and battered, hoping to give still more of itself, down to the last dregs at the bottom of the barrel.

Isabela’s heart was nothing like that. Hers was a shy, wary creature, viewing every kind word, every selfless gesture as a potential trap, when the real cage was of her own design. But Hawke had coaxed it out with patience and care, gave it room to fly where there was no space before. 

And yet she could not say it.

She felt it. Maker, did she feel it. When Hawke looked at her like that, like she was the only other person in the universe, the words clawed at the back of her tongue. But her lips stayed sealed, and she was left to scream it within the confines of her skull.

Isabela wasn’t any good with words. Well, no, that wasn’t quite true. She could be very good with words when she wanted to be. When Varric had writer’s block, it was her door he always knocked on, and she would take his bits and pieces of ideas and spackle them together with thoughts of her own. And bars in every port had heard tales of her exploits, wild stories she wove together on the fly. But these words, these softer things, these vulnerable things, they were different. They needed to be coated with brusqueness and indifference, if only so she wouldn’t choke on them.

If she couldn’t say the things she felt quite yet, maybe she could find a loophole. Though even the thought of the question she was about to ask sent anxiety squirming through her. She remembered a conversation she had with Merrill so long ago, when she thought she knew it all: _“What I do is only skin-deep.”_

“Hawke?” Isabela wound the sheets through her fingers, suddenly keenly aware of her own nudity. An absurdity given how often she was without clothes in Hawke’s presence, but it was an uncomfortable echo of her emotional state.

“Yes?” Soft eyes, easy smile, like she knew.

“Can I… I mean, I’d like to…” It was stupid, this was stupid, but she was going to say it anyway. “Make love to you.” The last few syllables were nearly swept away by the swathes of rain pummeling the roof. 

“I—”

“Not that I know what that entails, exactly, or even why I’m asking,” Isabela babbled, her mouth no longer her own. “I just… I want to. I want to,” she repeated, on the edge of pleading, because the words she wanted, needed to say weren’t coming out.

“Bela,” Hawke said, her voice melting. She held her hand out, and Isabela untangled her own from the sheets to take it.

A gentle pull, and she was on top of Hawke again, trying to say with her body what she couldn’t say with words. It didn’t seem any different than what they always did, not really, and yet nothing was the same, because Isabela had named it. She had given voice to her intentions instead of letting them be assumed.

They kissed between crashes of thunder rattling the walls, between flashes of lightning igniting the room in a heartbeat of white, and Isabela wasn’t afraid. Not anymore.

And even if she couldn’t say it, she could let her hands be the letters, her mouth, the punctuation, spelling it out over and over across Hawke’s skin. This was her language when all others failed, and Hawke was her parchment, her canvas. Hawke offered her heart, her body, all she had, with complete trust. It was only right for Isabela to give as much as she could in return.

On her knees, nearly seated on the bed with Hawke’s legs loosely wrapped around her, Isabela had the perfect vantage point to see the effects of every tease, every stroke. The way Hawke’s eyelids fluttered shut, the way she bit the corner of her bottom lip. The variations in her breathing as Isabela altered her tempo. Fast, slow, faster. Whispered blasphemies and requests: _right there, don’t stop, please please please_. As if Isabela could ever deny her.

Isabela let those words, the ones that left her mute and helpless, guide her movements, flood her senses. Pouring it into each touch, praying that it translated, crossed that invisible boundary separating their minds. She needed it. She needed Hawke to know. 

And maybe Hawke did know. When her eyes flickered open again and she looked at Isabela with so much love it was breathtaking, overwhelming, maybe she knew.

“Kiss me,” Hawke begged. 

The storm faded, a ghost of tapping raindrops lost to the background as Isabela leaned down to grant Hawke’s desire. She shifted the angle of her hand, picked up the pace, swallowed Hawke’s resulting moan with her kiss. There was nothing else. Just Hawke, only Hawke, always, and those words trapped in Isabela’s mouth.

Their lips parted and Hawke shuddered, whimpered against Isabela’s neck, spasmed around her fingers. 

“I love you,” Hawke gasped, with all the desperation of a prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you. Fuck, Isabela, I love you.”

And for every _I love you_ from Hawke, Isabela offered one of her own, mouthed the words, her cheek pressed to Hawke’s temple, naught but air leaving her throat. Because she did, she _did_ , even if the bloody words would not come out, and she knew it.

But some words did come out.

“You’re so beautiful,” Isabela whispered, her mouth now at Hawke’s ear. “I am yours. Completely. I swear it, Hawke. I’m yours.”

Hawke had no answer, could no longer seem to form any words of her own. She buried her head in Isabela’s shoulder, arms tight around her, until she slowly started to come down from her high, and even then she didn’t move. Her leg trembled against Isabela’s hip. The storm gradually came back into focus, though the thunder felt farther away, the rain less furious, the room a little warmer.

When she finally pulled back, Hawke’s eyes were bright with tears, and Isabela immediately felt a sympathetic stinging in her own. She thought about hiding them, but resisted. If she was going to cry, she was going to cry, and that was all there was to it.

Hawke swept Isabela’s hair to one side and cupped her face in both hands. She smiled, even as droplets pooled at the corners of her eyes. 

“Thank you,” Hawke said.

“For what?”

“For everything. For this. For being you.”

Isabela blinked, and a rogue tear began to streak down her nose before Hawke brushed it away with her thumb.

“I liked that,” Isabela said quietly, and it felt like such a silly thing to say, such a hollow choice of words, but Hawke seemed to understand what she meant.

“Me too.” Hawke suddenly looked almost shy. “Could I do the same for you?”

Isabela glanced above them, where the window was still nearly impenetrable with rain. As though the weather would have any bearing whatsoever on her answer.

“It looks like the storm’s not letting up. We’ll be stuck here a while longer.” She kissed Hawke again, her heart sent adrift. “I’m all yours.”

Hawke knew. She knew, even if she couldn’t hear the words.

* * *

Pirates.

Bloody pirates.

Isabela should’ve known things were going to get ugly when she saw him, an angry hulking wreck swaying on his barstool next to his mates, rum fumes oozing out of every pore. He turned when she walked in, spat something vulgar in Rivaini with a voice like a millstone. A week’s worth of scruff on cheeks the color of basalt, his hair in a loose knot at the back of his neck. Sharp black eyes. Still had all his teeth, too, by the looks of that leer. She might have considered him handsome. Too bad he had to ruin it by opening his mouth.

“I didn’t catch all that,” Hawke said, but it was to Isabela, not the man at the bar. She was genuinely curious, always wanting to learn more of Isabela’s native tongue. His tone and body language were likely the only things keeping her from asking him to repeat himself.

“It doesn’t matter,” Isabela muttered and shook her head, grabbing Hawke by the wrist to pull her away. “He can speak Common, he’s just being an ass.” 

Maybe it was better if Hawke didn’t know. Isabela wasn’t looking for a fight, not today. They had spent all day at the market, floating through a river of crowds and stalls, picking out trinkets and people-watching. Hawke had a new necklace peeking out from her shirt: a thin leather cord with a silver anchor, something Isabela saw glimmering across the stream of _Anahia_ and felt compelled to buy. 

She was tired, her feet hurt, and all she wanted was a beer and her bed, but she was willing to settle for only the latter if it meant avoiding this idiot.

But the idiot wasn’t done. He staggered to his feet, swaying like a swabbie on his first shore leave, the two jacks beside him following suit, loyal boys backing up their big-mouthed captain. He said it again, louder, slower, like it wasn’t the language she was raised with, like she’d take it as a compliment the second time around.

Of course, _I want to paint your tits with my ejaculate_ was not high on Isabela’s list of complimentary phrases, and certainly not when it was slurred by an aggressive rum-soaked stranger. A younger Isabela would have never let that stand. She’d get in his face, temper flaring, hands to fists, would claim her tits deserved better than anything he had to offer. Or she’d play his game, string him along until he was dying for it, then go to bed with one of his mates instead, leaving him piteously blue-balled.

Today, though, she didn’t have the energy for it. Today, she thought she might try being the bigger person for a change. And maybe she would have succeeded in it, until he opened his fucking mouth one more time.

“ _Zi takur alaa-naara_.”

Isabela froze. The world went red, blood boiling over. _Your dog can watch._

“He just called me a dog, didn’t he,” said Hawke, her voice a million miles away.

“He did.” 

It was at that precise moment, when Hawke cursed the man and his mother backwards and forwards in perfect Rivaini, Isabela could finally admit she was completely and irrevocably in love. And that she was ready for Hawke to hear it.

Maybe a bit inopportune, given the fist now swinging at Hawke’s face. It would have to wait.

Hawke side-stepped it, and Isabela moved to jump in, but one of his jacks grabbed her around the waist from behind, apparently more nimble—or at least sober—than his captain. She threw her head back, sick crunch as his nose shattered, wet against her hair. He howled, let her go, threw a pain-fueled haymaker at the back of her head. A glancing blow, but supernovas still exploded behind her eyes. She shook it off, got her feet back under her. He swung again, his face a ghastly red mess as she whirled to face him. Oversold it. Too open. Right hook to the corner of his jaw and he went down like an overfilled sack of meat.

Isabela’s fist screamed with protest at the bare-knuckled hit, white-hot shifts of bone moving where they weren’t supposed to, but she turned in time to see Hawke take a shot to the eye from the second of the captain’s men and suddenly none of that mattered.

She wasn’t sure what sound she made as she tackled him, but it wasn’t human, fury possessing her as sure as any demon. He flung a hand back to break his fall and she could hear his wrist snap, popping like a dry log in a fire. It served as a potent distraction for her to mount him, and she grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head into the floor until he stopped crying and went limp beneath her.

There was a thundering noise, like something barreling down the stairs, then a skittering of nails on wood behind her, and a snarling mass of fur and teeth and poetic justice launched itself over her head toward Hawke and the captain. The pirate let out a blood-curdling shriek as Brutus easily fit his leg in his jaws, bearing down and thrashing his head from side to side, like he had caught a rabbit instead of a man.

While she was still crouched on the ground, Isabela had the presence of mind to grab the knife from her boot. It found its way under the captain’s chin, even if her hold on it was tremulous, the joints in her hand already swelling.

“Yield!” she commanded. As if he had any choice.

He yielded, a blubbering mess, and Hawke called Brutus off, red spatters glistening around his muzzle as he spat the pirate’s leg out, torn pants and mangled flesh left behind. 

Isabela looked at Hawke. She was breathing hard, and the hit she took had split her forehead open above the eyebrow, leaving a stream of blood running down her face. But she was smiling, grinning, even, battlelust obliterating the pain. She swiped at her cheek and stared at her fingertips, seemingly only now aware of the wound. 

“I’m going to have to stitch that up,” Isabela said, and she started to laugh, an absurd giggle she couldn’t begin to help, because they always seemed to find themselves in these sorts of ridiculous situations. 

And maybe because she was hopelessly in love with this woman she just broke her hand for.

Hawke wiped the blood from her eye, smearing it across her nose. “As long as you let me wrap your hand. I can see you wrecked it from here.”

On cue, pain flowed back into Isabela’s hand, purple and red blossoming across her knuckles, but it barely registered. She was purified, free, able to accept what she had tried to stifle for years, a high stronger than any physical discomfort.

“Lucky for you I’m good with both of them,” she said, wiggling the fingers on her left hand, taken by another rush of mirth.

She was in love, she was in _love_.

The captain stared at her, the blade still at his throat, wide-eyed at her mild hysteria. The bartender dutifully ignored them, having likely borne witness to half a dozen fights already that day. The other patrons sipped their drinks, doing their best to avoid looking too interested in the two unconscious pirates, their emasculated captain, and the bleeding, laughing women and their mabari standing over them.

Finally, Isabela removed her knife, returning it to its sheath. “Go back to your ship,” she told him. “Tell your boys you were bested by three dogs.”

* * *

Isabela knew the beaches of Llomerryn. She knew the ones on the south side of the island, where the sand was covered in tiny boats, blue and red and yellow teeth biting into the shore, fishermen hauling their catches to _Anahia_ or simply selling directly from their dinghies. She knew the ones on the western side, the widest part of the island’s teardrop, where the waves were calm and tourists flocked, clogging up the beach during the dry season. But her favorites were the beaches on Llomerryn’s east side, where the waves towered from the Amaranthine Ocean, where rocky outcroppings dominated the sand, driving away curious visitors. There were tiny pockets of beach there, room for only a few brave souls willing to hike the rough terrain to experience them.

This was where she chose to take Hawke and Brutus a few days after their bar brawl with the pirates, when dealing with other people was exceedingly low on their list of desires. Hawke’s left eye was still a purple-yellow mess, but Isabela had taken her needle and catgut and sewn up the split as best she could, a tiny zigzag mountain atop Hawke’s brow. It was one of the many odds-and-ends sorts of talents she had learned from a chaotic life at sea, where real healers were rare and everyone turned to the captain in times of crisis.

As for Isabela, her own right hand was kept wrapped, a splint straightening out her ring finger, a decent attempt at keeping broken bits where they belonged. When she asked where Hawke had learned such things, Hawke simply laughed and said, “Having Carver as a brother.” Isabela was grateful she had the sense to remove all her rings before her fingers swelled up like overstuffed sausages.

They really made quite the pair, she thought.

Brutus, of course, was fine. Better than fine. The fight had brought life back to his old bones, and he dashed around them with all the energy of a puppy, leaping off rocky inclines and digging furiously in the shore for Maker knows what sorts of treasures. He tore holes into the wet sand as the tide receded, springing away when the waves washed back in to ruin his archaeological site, an endless loop of excavation and refilling.

There wasn’t much conversation once she and Hawke were comfortably seated in the sand, boots off, warmth sinking into their toes. Their private stretch of white sand—smaller than the Full and By’s bar—laid trapped between two small cliffs, layers upon layers of stone ridges, depositions from time immemorial. It was a little-known spot well off the beaten path, similar to the beach where she tried to drown herself eight years ago, but even smaller. She had wanted to bring Hawke here from the moment they landed, but she chose to wait for the rainy season to end, wait for the ocean to spit back up some sand for them to sit on.

The journey there was a long one, longer than she intended, and the sun was already beginning to drop behind them, hidden by the steep bank they picked their way down to get to the beach. The waves drank up the fading rays, golden at the crests, black underneath, the clouds above reflecting the same pattern. There were no sounds of civilization this far out. Even the throb of _Anahia_ was too distant to be discerned. Nothing but water: soft across sand, harder against rock, sharp brine carried by a breeze that was almost chilly.

They sat side by side, shoulders touching, and Isabela wondered how she got here. _“Our mistakes make us who we are.”_ She told Anders that once, when he was needling her about philosophy, about morality, about all that pretentious shit he thought she should care about. When he treated her like a puzzle to be solved, like the right question would categorize her into something black or white. Her response was flippant, borne of irritation, and he took it as such, but it was true. And it wasn’t just her own mistakes guiding her, either. She would not have found a home in piracy if Hari hadn’t sold her. She would not have landed in Kirkwall without Castillon’s job to steal the Tome, without those would-be slaves she freed, without the ones she allowed to drown, without the debt she owed the Armada, without the guilt from Bones’s death. Without Hayder hunting her down, she never would have asked for Varric’s help, never would have met Hawke. 

And what of Hawke? The Blight drove her to Kirkwall, but her uncle’s mistakes forced her to stay. Without that, she and her family might have left for Ferelden again once the Blight ended, weeks, maybe months before Isabela washed up onto the Wounded Coast.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” she asked Hawke.

Hawke turned to face her, long shadows from the cliffs creeping up her back. “Of course. I watched you knock out half a dozen men and then take a shot of whiskey.” She gave a wry smile. “Should’ve known I was going to fall in love then and there.”

“And I saw you at the other end of the bar, all tall and imposing with that giant sword and thought, ‘I need to get her in bed with me immediately.’”

“Well, you did. Eventually.”

“I did, and I never worked so hard or waited so patiently for anything in my entire life. Worth it, though.”

Hawke said nothing, only smiled and rubbed her hand over Isabela’s back, then her shoulder, where the rose tattoo had long-since healed, blood red petals and black thorns. Hawke’s own tattoo hid under her shirt: four solid black birds of prey, each a finger’s length tall—a pair perched on each shoulder, guarding her, silent inked sentinels. Malcolm and Leandra, Carver and Bethany. Hawke would carry a piece of them with her to the end of time.

Isabela hoped they would approve. If the seer was right and Hawke’s father was on the other side of the Veil, the magic in his blood anchoring him to the mortal world stronger than other spirits, did he see the woman walking beside his daughter? Did he know how much Isabela loved her? What of Leandra? With her crafty, calculating mind, would she have guessed what would happen to the recalcitrant pirate captain she shared tea with?

It didn’t matter, really. She would prove herself worthy, ghosts or not. When she and Hawke fought the day Isabela received the letter from Castillon, when she told Hawke what she deserved, the kind of love she ought to have, Isabela never, ever thought it would be hers to give. That _she_ would be the one to love completely, without reservations. It was still hard to believe. And Isabela wasn’t the only one who had to be patient, far from it. Hawke waited years for that love.

“Thank you for sticking with me,” Isabela said, pressing her good hand to the small of Hawke’s back. “I know I’m not exactly the easiest person to love, but—” 

“That’s not true,” Hawke interrupted, shaking her head. “You’re not hard to love. Not at all. Even when you were gone, it was easier for me to keep loving you than to stop.”

Isabela had no response for that. None of this was what she expected. Love was supposed to be painful, it was supposed to be hard, but it wasn’t with Hawke, not really, not anymore. It felt utterly normal, natural, like a ship’s wheel in her hands, like her favorite pair of boots. Comfortable. 

She hoped saying it would be just as easy, but every time she formed the sentence in her head, snatched the words from the ether and held them together, one two three, her heart started to race and her tongue turned to lead. She kept waiting for the perfect time, the perfect setting to turn around and fall.

But maybe this was it. 

Hawke stared out to sea, the sunset coronating her with a golden crown. Her queen. Isabela arranged the words one more time, subject verb object. She could say it in many languages: _ana zu anya, te amo, ti amo, je t’aime, varin kadan_...

“Hawke?”

“Hm?” Hawke mumbled, her head not turning, and that just wouldn’t do. She needed to see it, to see Isabela’s lips form the words, because Isabela didn’t know when she would be able to work up the courage to take this plunge again.

“Marian Hawke.”

That worked. Hawke looked, and Isabela must have seemed a nervous wreck, because Hawke’s expression immediately grew concerned, the corners of her mouth pulling taut, the stitches above her eyebrow tilting up.

Breathe. One, two, three.

 _Now_.

“I love you.”

The words felt like the release of a breath held for years. Like the first drops of rain during an endless drought. Like rebirth.

She jumped and Hawke caught her, like Isabela knew she would.

Hawke blinked, her mouth dropping open slightly, stunned. But then she smiled, really smiled, the kind that crinkled the corners of her eyes, the kind that Isabela had always adored. And now Hawke could add an extra word to the phrase, a tiny word, one Isabela never anticipated would fill her heart with so much joy.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last song to close it out as our heroines continue their adventures:  
> "Last of the Wilds" by Nightwish
> 
> I played Dragon Age 2 for the first time at the end of 2018. It was actually the last game in the series I had played; I avoided it for ages because everyone said it was terrible. But then a friend said, no, you have to play it, because the characters are the best of the series. So I played it, and I'll admit, I was hesitant at first, but I fell in love, and now I'm one of those people who can't stop defending DA2 to the skeptics. I loved the characters, of course. But I loved one in particular.
> 
> When I finished the game, I knew I needed to write about Isabela. I wasn't sure what kind of story I wanted to tell, but I knew I wanted to tell _her_ story. She's a complex character, and I wanted to explore all her sides. The fearsome, ruthless pirate. The self-loathing woman with a tragic past. The confident seductress. The joker. The one with a soft spot for orphans and the downtrodden. The kind, caring lover. She's not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. She's selfish, greedy, impulsive, and self-sabotaging. Many of her decisions make zero sense to an outside perspective. Honestly, they probably don't always make sense to her, either. But that's what drew me to her in the first place.
> 
> When I started writing this, I was nervous. She and I have nothing in common, I thought. How am I going to put myself into such a foreign headspace? As it turns out, we have more in common than I thought, and the more I wrote, the easier it became to put myself into those absurd boots of hers. The expansion on Rivain came naturally—I didn't want to divorce her from her culture and language. Yes, she has traveled extensively, yes, she's a worldly woman, but she's still Rivaini, and I didn't want to ignore that (even if Bioware did, and acts like the country doesn't exist most of the time). Developing Rivain was one of my favorite parts of this whole thing, and something I never expected liking as much as I did.
> 
> What started as a simple character study and an exploration into the "in-between" spaces in the DA2 plot became something so much bigger than I anticipated. I'm so grateful for all the feedback and support I've gotten along the way. I'd especially like to thank (I'll go by their AO3 names) prizewinningfruitcake, kitbug, Jewels_Is_Typing, FairyTaleLover04, moonlacer, sivrak, chungusbungus, and dalish-ish for their delightful commentary! It definitely kept my motivation up (and seeing those AO3 notifications in my email inbox is better than any drug, I swear to god). And for everyone who read, left kudos, left a comment, reblogged, liked, everything... thank you all so, so much.
> 
> Anyway, that's enough rambling. I can't believe it's done (?!). But _I'm_ certainly not done. Expect more in the near future :)
> 
> PS: Here's a link to the [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3PHbdyHJT7odSTP5HFuVQD?si=1kiqlQpXTVKVZZQP-aKvag), which has since grown from 24 songs to 66!
> 
> PPS: The sequel to this fic, ["Into the Void,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20439569/chapters/48492422) has started! If you can't get enough of these two dorks and are curious how Isabela would handle the Inquisition crew, feel free to check it out!


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